


Oversight

by MephistAgain



Category: Halo (Video Games) & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blue Team being the best team, Character building, Drama, Excuse my ignorance computer people, F/M, Fred being adorable, Fred learns shit about feelings, Halsey is a (slightly less) evil genius but not really, I know nothing about software or developing it, I love Fred, OC has some baggage, Please be my baby daddy Fred, Possibility of a plot, Romance, Sexy things, She did a bad thing, Slow Burn, Software developers with spunk, Spartans Have Feelings, TRIGGER WARNING: Pregnancy/Infant Loss, is this enough tags, mature themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:53:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 32,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28662033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MephistAgain/pseuds/MephistAgain
Summary: In 2559 the Created conflict has been resolved & Blue Team is slated for some much deserved 'downtime'. They're to perform as the test subjects for the preliminary Gen 3 MJOLNIR trial runs - a relatively low key assignment in Fred's mind. The civilian software developer hired on for said project has no reason to suspect she's about to prove him wrong. They're perfect strangers after all.
Relationships: Frederic-104 (Halo)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 40





	1. 1

**Oh hayyy, I'm just here comin' back atcha with another Fred-centric story.**

**I mean... I felt compelled to after the last one, even though I'm satisfied with how it played out. I just feel we could all use a little more Fred in our lives, and also less (maybe? I hope) morbidity. I'm not planning a tragic conclusion for this one, let's put it that way. There will still be angst, and drama, and sex. It's gotta have romance and it's gotta have people doin' it or it's not written by me. I mean... I'm not going to look too closely at what that says about me as a person. There'll be a plot as well (I think), and the female OC has an interesting background (IMO at least), and it won't be straightforward. Slow burn material. But mostly it's gonna be Spartans (Fred namely, but also some John, Linda, and Kelly) dealing with shit which doesn't involve them kicking alien ass - y'know, that other greatest of threats to humanity - feelings. Big BIG feelings. Did I mention it's about Fred? I love Fred.**

**TRIGGER WARNING: Pregnancy/Infant Loss is mentioned.**

**Mature themes.**

**And Fred.**

* * *

If the relative obscurity she'd enjoyed during the past six years of her life hadn't been reassurance enough, this newest revelation was all the proof Lyra required that the Office of Naval Intelligence was 100% in the dark over what she'd participated in seven years before. Not only had she never been approached about it, nor ever noticed even an eyebrow raised in her direction from any of the number of ONI personnel she'd had the distinction of working beside throughout her career since those fateful events, this latest assignment was the final nail in the coffin of her dwindling paranoia.

There was no chance - not even 0.0000001% of a chance - that she would have been transferred to _this_ facility, to work on _this_ project if there'd been even a sliver of a shadow of suspicion concerning her. None whatsoever. They _could not_ know.

Paradoxically, the knowledge did not make her feel better.

She reread the assignment outline. She reread it several times, but the content never changed. There on her tablet in bold black font, staring her in the face, was the evidence.

**Projected test subjects: Blue Team**

A burst of disbelieving laughter escaped her before she got ahold of herself. Fortunately, her office's walls were fairly soundproof. No need for any of her colleagues to know that she was teetering on the edge of a mental breakdown just from being faced with two innocuous words, but reality had slammed into her in that moment.

Her knee-jerk reaction to request reassignment was at once dismissed on the basis that was bound to provoke questions. Why _wouldn't_ she want the assignment? It was precisely her area of expertise and a project many in her particular niche of the highly competitive field would trip over themselves for. The UNSC almost _never_ sought outside contractors for these sorts of classified ventures. It was assuredly only as a result of the recently resolved debacle which had been dubbed the Created Uprising - a conflict which had seen demand for the skills of software developers like herself skyrocket. She still shuddered to think what might have been had the AIs succeeded in their bet to subjugate mankind. How they'd thwarted Cortana was still under wraps, so thickly wound up in red tape that she seriously doubted the true events would ever see the light of day. She'd met the impressively intelligent smart AI on a few occasions after being hired to work on the coding which would allow it to not only pair seamlessly with the newly developed Mark V MJOLNIR, but also to interface directly with the armor's wearer through an advanced neural linkage. When news had broken that _that_ was the AI responsible for the mayhem which had ensued when UNSC and civilian vessels, satellites, stations, and relays alike had begun being systematically knocked offline, she'd been understandably shocked and appalled. Then again, the woman who'd created the AI - whom she'd laboured under the supervision of - had been arrested years before under dubious circumstances, so should it have come as a surprise?

The insane notion of faking a medical emergency came and went in a fraction of a second as she anxiously chewed the inside of her cheek.

No, she couldn't turn it down. Couldn't play the coward. She would have to go and complete the job and make the best of a painfully ironic situation - it would bolster her CV, if nothing else. Further set her apart from other developers.

Maybe she'd score a pay increase?

Snorting at herself, she dropped the tablet onto the surface of her desk. Then immediately chastised herself for her careless handling of the device. Picked it back up and opened a new browser, tapped in the subject of the search, and spent the next thirty seconds scrolling through media articles on the infamous Spartan-II team. Most of them, at a glance, were detailing the purported exploits of one Master Chief Petty Officer John-117, or simply the Master Chief. His presumed death, his heroic achievements. There wasn't much about the other three - basically squat. But she'd expected as much. And anyone monitoring her device wouldn't find her research odd considering her assignment to the upcoming project.

Setting the tablet down more respectfully this time, she sat back in her ergonomic chair and resigned herself to a chain of sleepless nights to come. The project was slated to commence in two weeks' time. Just long enough for her to develop insomnia habits and subsequently and contradictorily dose herself on far too much caffeine to cope.

One thing was for certain. There was now a bottle of red in her apartment earmarked to be demolished the moment she finished up for the day. Except that was when she'd probably start wondering about it all again. Picturing the tiny, lifeless bundle they'd placed in her arms post-op and scrutinizing any and all details she recalled for information about what the other contributing half of the stillborn's DNA might look like.

It'd been so long since she'd tortured herself in such a way. At first, the anguish and guilt and pain had felt like something she'd always live with. Like they'd never leave her, not that she'd believed she deserved for them to. Not a minute had gone by that she hadn't hated herself. Agonized over it. Why? _Why_ had she been so blind? So dumb?

Looking back now with a critical eye, she knew part of it was that she'd presented herself as an easy target, that she'd been flattered by Catherine Halsey's growing interest in her efficiency and aptitude, and had foolishly admired the doctor's intellect. She'd allowed herself to be suckered into the whole thing.

The strings Halsey had pulled to have her retinitis pigmentosa corrected, a condition she'd only been diagnosed with the year before and which her own doctor had gravely advised her there was no cure for, had been the first step. The procedure, Halsey had claimed, was innovative - a variation of the augmentations her Spartan-IIs had undergone, in fact - and thereby classified. She saw it all now. That'd been the first tidbit of information Halsey had offered her about the program she'd designed and executed to produce highly functioning tactical combatants of peerless standing. Lyra had leapt at the opportunity to save her failing vision and Halsey had arranged the surgery.

The diagnostic workup and evaluations which were performed prior to her approval had been available to Halsey, and that was when she'd noted the otherwise highly compatible nature of the unassuming software developer's genetic and physical makeup for the Spartan program. This, she'd later explained, combined with Lyra's above average intelligence and ingenuity had led Halsey to pursue a former hypothesis that offspring created from the Spartan-IIs could potentially and theoretically surpass them as next-level tactical combatants by virtue of inheriting superior genetic qualities and being more easily augmentable.

It'd been the most ludicrous and megalomaniacal line Lyra had ever before been fed. And she'd eaten it up.

So naive. And so fucking ambitious.

Halsey had been stroking her egos though she'd been a favoured feline pet. Oh sure, it'd taken some weeks for her to come around to the idea of a kid, of being artificially inseminated with the sperm of a guy whose name or background she'd never be privy to and whose recommending qualities amounted to unrivalled determination, natural athleticism, and superb problem solving skills. Those weren't considerations an up-and-coming twenty-four year old had previously contemplated. But she'd agreed in the end. To make the best of it, she'd not only agreed, but had allowed them to schedule her into a private reproductive clinic and do it not once, not twice, but on three separate occasions as a result of the first two pregnancies 'not taking'.

They'd taken, alright, and then her body had rejected them and there'd been blood.

So much blood.

Why, neither Halsey nor the reproductive specialists could explain. For all intents and purposes, she was a healthy and fertile young female. But the third time - the third time she'd waited day after day, week after week for the terrible cramps which had never come. And all the while she'd obediently taken the supplements and suffered the injections, attended obstetrics appointments and been ultrasounded. She'd gained weight. Her back had hurt, her feet had hurt, her hands had swelled - coding in that condition had been a trial.

If only she'd known.

If only she'd known and had appreciated the small flutters of movements inside her womb, the tiny hiccups of the baby growing there, the sound of her rushing heartbeats on the monitoring equipment.

Regrets. She had so many.

Week thirty-one she had begun to feel unwell, more than what she'd learned to live with. Week thirty-two they had scheduled her for an emergency preterm cesarean - her blood pressure was dangerously low and she'd become bedridden. She had gone under anesthesia thinking she would wake up a mother with a brand new baby to hold, to stare at in wonder, to protect.

She'd already decided against going through with Halsey's proposal. The MJOLNIR on which they'd booted up the first few trial runs of the software she'd been working on had had 117 painted in white block lettering on the chest and she'd overheard the sometimes derisive, sometimes worshipful under-their-breath chatter of her military counterparts present. It hadn't phased her much then. Some difficulty and jealousy were to be expected between the ranks, right? Especially considering the undisputable superiority of the Spartan-IIs as soldiers. Techies were notoriously critical of their less sophisticated fielded brethren.

But the more she'd later thought about it, the more it had bothered her to imagine people murmuring those things about _her_ child, _her_ flesh and blood. Halsey had also proven vague about what she'd envisioned a training program for a new generation of Spartans to entail.

Lyra wasn't opposed to or even unfamiliar with strenuous and orderly preparatory regimes - she'd completed over a year of basic training with the UNSC herself before opting to be discharged to pursue her current career path. She hadn't minded it. She'd relished the challenge of physical exertion and unyielding expectations. But then it'd grown stale and she'd foreseen a life of monotony for herself, closeted in some military facility completing the same tasks day in and day out, and if she was lucky, progressing up the ranks to more of the same. A job in the private sector provided her with the ability to choose her assignments, to suggest improvements or changes to projects when she saw fit, to increase her knowledge and skill at seminars. It'd been a no brainer.

But that wasn't what Halsey had been proposing for her child. She'd been naive, but not _that_ naive. She'd known the reason the Spartan-II program was so confidential wasn't just because it needed to be protected from sabotage or duplication by the Insurrectionists, or that its innovation was part of what fueled its success against the Covenant, but also because there were aspects of it the general population wouldn't have responded well to. And it was those unknown but ominous aspects she'd found herself growing more and more troubled over during the weeks leading up to the c-section.

But then it had been over and she had woken up and been handed a tiny limp bundle and her world had fallen to pieces. She hadn't even named her. She'd been numb, then inconsolable, then numb in turns. And it'd gone on and on, minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day. For weeks. For weeks and weeks, until during one visit from a coworker who'd begun to fill the awkward silence following the prerequisite 'how are you', 'you look well', 'it'll get easier' with inane chatter about a piece of software she was developing when Lyra had forgotten about the pain for one whole minute and had pointed out a critical flaw in the layout of her colleague's half-completed program. Just one minute when the crushing guilt and sorrow hadn't been unbearable. Then it'd miraculously happened again a few days later. And it'd continued to happen, small but increasing intervals when she could think, could function, could be herself again instead of the emotional train wreck she'd become when they'd put her dead baby in her arms.

Button nose, tuft of dark downy hair, pouted lips.

So small.

So soft.

There weren't many defining physical features on an infant. She hadn't even gotten to see what colour her eyes had been. Not much to go on to put together a fictional picture in her mind of what the father might resemble. But she knew she'd be pondering it again in the days ahead.

She probably wouldn't even see him, wouldn't even be in the same compound as he was. She needed minimal access to the actual MJOLNIR and none to the Spartans who would be sporting it. There'd be a few test runs to ensure the software booted up successfully and operated as it should, but with a previous version from the last iteration to build upon, this should prove a fairly easy gig for her all in all. Work wise, anyway. Psychologically speaking was another matter.

She'd just stock up on coffee.

And wine.

Lots and lots of wine.


	2. 2

**I want to preface this with the fact I am not a software developer and I'm making this all up as I go. I hope it sounds believable enough and isn't too cringeworthy for all those more tech savvy readers out there. I could have spent more time researching terminology and concepts, but... I just can't be bothered to spend hours trying to make sense of a field I have absolutely zero interest in myself. The career made sense for my OC and I'm trying to do much best to glaze over the specifics as much as possible. It's not the focal point of the story. Fred getting laid is - in case there was any question. And all the other emotional upheaval/shenanigans which go along with that.**

* * *

They didn't just want her to develop firewalls, they wanted her to develop firewalls _for_ the firewalls, along with multiple other layers of anti-malware.

The irony of someone in possession of the kinds of secrets she was basically heading up the security aspect of the software to be installed on the Gen 3 was not lost on her. Her previous work on the Mark V, she'd been informed, had greatly influenced the decision to reach out to her company to have her assigned to the project.

If only. If only they knew what that job had cost her, what it had wrapped her up in, they'd be providing her with a hard chair in a small room and a series of condemning questions rather than the bright office with windows looking out on the large titanium statues of various landmark breakthroughs in military hardware. The originally fielded MJOLNIR featured prominently, along with a spacecraft she thought was the infamous Sabre, and a considerably scaled down version of the UNSC's flagship _Infinity._ It wasn't a bad view. A bit stark. The monument could use some shrubs or flowers or something, but it was leagues above the cubicle she'd sat inside for hour upon hour on the Mark V project.

She'd begun preliminary work the moment she'd been forwarded the outline and requirements of what it was they expected her to design and had tabled her proposal at her first meeting with the project's oversight team. Changes and improvements had been discussed and she'd settled into her new work environment convinced she could handle this without allowing her nerves to get the better of her.

That had lasted thirteen whole blissfully mundane days. Long enough for her to fall into a routine, become accustomed to her colleagues, rearrange her temporary office to a more comfortable layout, let herself be talked into 'a few drinks some night' with a couple of the more persistent fellas in the building she kept running into when she took her coffee break in the mess hall, and start to think she'd overreacted just the tiniest amount to it all.

Then it'd happened.

"Ashton - they want us all over in Echo block."

Lyra's fingers had frozen above her keyboard - she preferred it to the holo-based or transparent touch glass variety, the rapid tapping sound and pressure of her fingers hitting the keys just felt more productive somehow - at the simple set of instructions. "Sorry?" She spun her chair to face the doorway where Crewman Heather Swinton still hovered, the young officer's copper ringlets once more springing free from the failing bun she'd already scraped them back into twice that day that Lyra had noticed.

"All personnel are to report to Echo block. It's probably just another security sweep," she answered with indifference, as though spontaneous checks for restricted devices which might be used to leak confidential files or data were of no consequence whatsoever.

Despite having been subjected to no less than five such instances since arriving at the facility, Lyra did not share this indifference. She hated being interrupted when she was in the middle of coding. It disturbed her focus and increased the margin for errors. She blew out a breath, grabbed her jacket, and left her desk, following Swinton and the other programmers from the building.

It wasn't like they didn't clear her to enter the premises every morning, a process which included her turning out her pockets, letting them rummage through the satchel she toted her precious modified keyboard back and forth from the hotel in, and even pat her down. The Gen 3 and everything pertaining to it were classified, she understood that. They'd expected her to take up residence on site originally, a misunderstanding that she had _insisted_ her company supervisor clear up before she'd even set foot on the cruiser to be transported there. She'd enjoyed the 'amenities' of military accommodations during her last stint working for them and it wasn't a treat she was eager to experience a second time. Besides, the hotel was only five kilometers away - close enough for her to walk, so she got to stretch her legs a little after being chained to her desk from eight til eight. The soldiers on sentry duty had given her strange looks for the first few days, no doubt wondering at her lack of transportation - especially since the town that had sprung up to support the base shortly after its installment was normally crawling with warthogs and other ground support vehicles on their way to or from training exercises. She supposed they might give her something to drive if she asked nicely, but she didn't mind the walk.

Well. Most days.

They usually loitered in the parking lot while the security sweeps were completed, but it was raining buckets that day - the downpour having opened up after she'd made it in that morning, fortunately - which was why she assumed they were being directed to Echo block, wherever that was. Her coworkers appeared to know, so she trailed them, hood drawn up. It wasn't far to the neighbouring structure, a massive hangar she'd just assumed housed all those ground vehicles, the plaque outside proclaiming it to indeed be Echo Block. Her feet were wet from that short distance so she wasn't relishing her return trip to the hotel. Swinton, Gomez, Baker and the others she worked with were all transfers as well and lived on base, so begging a lift off one of them wouldn't be an option. And she didn't know any of the posted personnel who lived off base well enough yet.

They filed into the hangar, into a small foyer, and Lyra resigned herself to arriving at the hotel drenched. She might have to leave her keyboard in her office to spare it.

"Hope this doesn't take long, I'm starving," Luis Gomez griped as he shook off his uniform cap.

Swinton, who'd brandished a black umbrella to protect herself and her attire from the elements, rolled her eyes. "Let me guess, brownies on the menu for dessert today."

The Latino crewman had proven himself to have a sweet tooth, Lyra supposed, thinking back over the past couple weeks. She usually only accompanied them to the mess to snag a watery black beverage that served as coffee on base, but on the few occasions she'd lingered to chat a little, she recalled Gomez's double portion of dessert. He wasn't a big fella, so obviously he could afford the extra calories. It was as she was tugging her hood down, wrinkling her nose at the cold droplets which had somehow found their way to the back of her neck, that she noticed Irvine Baker had wandered to the far end of the foyer and was peering through the thick glass of the security door there. Curiosity got the better of her and she approached, able to see over the head of the diminutive and reserved soldier. "What's caught your eye?"

He was quiet, but smart. Smarter than her and everyone else he worked with, she suspected, though he never flaunted that intelligence. It showed in his brilliant coding, however. He struck her as the type who'd probably not had an easy time with boot camp even though he looked fit enough. "Over there," he answered, pressing his index finger to the glass to indicate where his interest lay.

Following the gesture, she couldn't detect much of significance. A few scorpions, a wolverine, and two cobras. Other than that, just some soldiers parking some warthogs. It looked as though they weren't long back from wherever they'd been, the vehicles and them both leaving puddles on the smooth concrete floor. She was about to shrug and walk away again when they rounded one of the scorpions - four in sodden gray fatigues who towered above the other soldiers. The rain droplets slithered down between her shoulder blades and a shiver shot up her spine in response.

"I heard they were here, but I haven't seen them around," Baker went on, taking it for granted that she would understand the 'they' he was referring to.

And she did.

Blue Team.

"I've never seen one before - a Spartan."

Neither had she. Just the MJOLNIR they wore, which had of course provided a reference for the size of its wearer, but seeing one in person…

"Shit, they're huge," Baker muttered. He didn't seem the cussing type, but she wholeheartedly agreed with his assessment.

They were crossing the hangar towards a side entrance, their strides purposeful and postures alert - she could see it in the way they watched their surroundings with the barest of head movements, shoulders and backs straight - not tense, just… prepared. For anything. Like apex predators on a patrol of their turf. The brims of their uniform caps shadowed their features, but one of the men had rolled his sleeves back to reveal muscular forearms which swung gently by his sides as he walked. From this distance, she couldn't read their ranks or name patches. No way to know who was who.

Her stomach somersaulted.

Hacking into the repro clinic's patient records had been a stroke of madness fueled by the certainty she'd been about to become a person of interest following Halsey's detainment, and so any further crimes she perpetrated would just be icing on the cake. It had only been a matter of time, she'd been convinced, before ONI learned of what she'd participated in. So she'd remotely bypassed their firewall and accessed her file, just needing to know, to at least put a name to the person whose genetic code had combined with her own to create the life which had blossomed inside her. The shock and violation she'd felt at reading there'd been multiple donors had been inexplicable even then. Why she should be surprised that this information had been kept from her considering the clandestine nature of the whole thing - she shouldn't have been, but was. It hadn't occurred to her Halsey might use two different donors. But there it had been, proof the first two miscarriages had been the result of insemination by one contributor and the third by another. Donor 1: S-117. Donor 2: S-104. Not even names, just identifiers. The painted numbers on the Mark V had flashed before her eyes in a jarring rush, along with a wave of nausea. But Halsey had never discussed 117, always making generalized reference to 'her' Spartans as a whole, never a certain individual.

Lyra hadn't even attempted to dig up more, she'd been reeling. That had happened by chance some years later as the UNSC had relaxed its jealous guarding of any and all details pertaining to their precious Spartans. An article published in the digital journal she'd subscribed to during her boot camp days which had been heaping praise on the program for its unquestionable role in ending the bloody conflict that had been the Human-Covenant War had paid special tribute to one Spartan-II fireteam in particular; Blue Team - consisting of four core members, including 'the' fabled Master Chief. What she hadn't been expecting was for it to go on to list them. Linda-058, Kelly-087, John-117, and Frederic-104.

And here they were, no more than fifty paces away on the other side of a metal door.

"We can head back," Swinton called.

Baker turned away from the glass, bumping her in the process. Well, she couldn't blame the guy, she'd almost climbed on top of him in her attempt to take in every possible aspect of the retreating forms of the Spartans.

She reluctantly stepped back and allowed him to squeeze by with a murmured apology, her gaze still affixed to the objects of her focus. They reached the side entrance and disappeared through it.

She'd been so close. So close to satisfying her restless mind's musings over what he looked like - the father of the baby girl she'd never gotten to be a mother to.

"Ashton."

"Yeah, I'm coming."


	3. 3

John wasn't happy about the assignment. He didn't say as much, but Fred knew it was as obvious to Linda and Kelly as it was to him. He watched his lifelong comrade and brother while they sat at a table in the mess surrounded by the idle chatter of the base's personnel. John's expression didn't give away much - it never did. His cap rested on the bench beside him, as did everyone else's. He ate without paying any particular attention to those around him, a state of being not to be confused with inattentiveness. John _knew_ everything that was occurring around him, it was a heightened level of awareness which never shut off, not for any of them. He just didn't sense anything worth further consideration.

Just the chatter and the stares.

It didn't bother Fred - the staring. When it came to it, it didn't bother any of them in a manner which would preclude them behaving as expected, as they'd been trained. But he knew Linda in particular, and John to a lesser extent, didn't care for the gawking or the hushed speculation. They, more than he and Kelly, found the attention superfluous and uncomfortable. It never seemed to get any better, no matter how many years went by or how many mess halls they made use of. It was as though everyone forgot the bodies inside the MJOLNIR required the basics to survive; food, water, sleep. More of the former and less of the latter, but even so.

It was the image that had been pushed. Stalwart supersoldiers encased in near-indestructible armor. Unflagging. Undaunted. Meta-humans approaching godlike status in the eyes of the species they'd been crafted to protect and defend. Untouchable even by death, or so the premise of the KIA status never being applied to a Spartan went.

It didn't make the loss of his many brothers and sisters over the decades any easier to bear.

Fred knew loss was what hung heavy on John's shoulders. Not of a fellow Spartan, but of an entity which had nevertheless been an integral piece of his teammate's life the past seven years. And it wasn't even just the physical loss of the AI, but the betrayal. Even though Fred knew John was aware rampancy had induced Cortana to mount what she'd referred to as the Reclamation, he still suspected the betrayal and the role Blue Team had subsequently played in terminating Cortana had cut John deeply.

If given the opportunity, he knew, John would revert to the relentless pace of back-to-back missions he'd resorted to when it had at first been believed Cortana had been destroyed along with the Didact's ship. Some might call it a coping mechanism. John would argue it was doing his duty, nothing more and nothing less. In Fred's opinion, the rights of what it was fell somewhere in the middle of both explanations.

But instead of the steady grind of op after op, they'd been assigned as test subjects for the newest iteration of MJOLNIR and shipped here.

No, John wasn't happy about it. He didn't say it, but he didn't need to.

Fred didn't mind the downtime. He wouldn't have minded being fielded either. He wasn't particular about what assignments he was given as long as he was performing a useful function. And since the Gen 2 armor had proven somewhat lacking when compared to its predecessors, any step towards the introduction of an upgraded model he could assist with was a worthy enough role to fulfil in his eyes. Hopefully the Gen 3, when put into service, would build upon the capabilities of the Mark VII serving as its testbed. Fred hadn't been issued a set of the armor, few had owing to both the costly nature of its production and its platform, in keeping with its predecessors, having been customized to complement the Spartan-IIs they'd originally been designed for - a now dwindling population. He'd heard good things about it, however, and he was looking forward to the trial runs.

He recalled the first time he'd set eyes on MJOLNIR. The warning Dr. Halsey had given them about needing to maintain absolute control over not only their bodies, but minds and emotions, or the armor could potentially do them irreversible harm, even kill them. John had volunteered to be the first to don it, naturally. The speed, the power, the sense of invincibility as they'd all grown accustomed to the unparalleled enhancements to their reflexes, response times, and overall efficiency. It'd been as close a state to intoxication as he could relate. Drunk on the incomprehensible potential and the confidence to reach it, regardless of what that meant, of where that led. He wasn't that green any longer. He had thirty years, over two hundred engagements and a hundred-and-forty campaigns, to his credit now. At some point he'd become more comfortable in the armor than out of it. It wasn't a piece of equipment that increased his proficiency anymore, in some ways it was home. One of only a few constants throughout the course of a life that had taught Fred many, many lessons - the least of which was that Spartans were nothing even close to approaching invincible and that potential wasn't everything. Purpose was. Brothers and sisters you trusted to watch your back were. And sometimes the most innocuous and mundane assignments were just as informative as the complex and volatile ones.

They finished their meals in companionable silence, replaced their caps, and left the stares behind. Outside it was still raining, but as they passed the square John slowed to study the replica of _Infinity_. On closer inspection, Fred noted his teammate wasn't so much appreciating the statue - a distraction which would have been uncharacteristic enough for him - as just staring at it.

Kelly and Linda shared looks with him which denoted, in their own individual manners, their concern. He gave a nod for them to continue on. Went to John's side and just stood there in the pelting downpour, his focus shifting between the statues.

 _Infinity_ had nearly been lost in the conflict with the Created and was still undergoing repairs at an orbital shipyard in the Sol system, where it'd managed to limp following the final battle. The supercarrier hadn't been the only thing to barely survive and Fred surmised it was those events which were replaying in John's mind as he stared with troubled and unseeing eyes. "We did the right thing," he spoke up eventually, fully aware he wasn't the first to have uttered the assurance. "You did the right thing."

"I know," was all John said. And he did. But knowing it and accepting it were not the same thing.

Movement in his peripherals from one of the windows of the building opposite the square drew his attention. Fred glanced up, water sluicing off the brim of his cap and down his temples and cheeks as he did so. It wasn't easy to see through the rain, but he could make out a figure - female judging from the long hair, light in colour, blonde most likely. Civilian, since it was unbound. He estimated her to be above average height based on the dimensions of the window and the distance between it and the one looking out from the floor beneath it. Caucasian maybe. Then she stepped back and disappeared. Probably just wondering what the two of them were doing standing around in the inclement weather.

"Psych evals start in fifteen," John announced while he turned to walk on, as though he hadn't been the one to cause the delay to start with. That was just John. Acknowledging he was struggling was a perceived weakness they'd all been conditioned against. Some of them had come to terms, over the years, with the fact expressing difficulty in managing stress was not a character flaw. It was a common side effect of combat. Fred had. But John continued to prove deeply reserved about admitting to such things.

Fred fell in beside him. "They're not going to pull you from active duty for being affected. You know that, right?"

"Affected," John repeated impassively.

He couldn't help a quirk of his lips at the predictable response. "Affected," he confirmed.

"I'm fine."

"I didn't say you weren't."

"I'm fit for duty."

"I didn't say you weren't."

"You implied it."

Fred shook his head. "I'd follow you to hell and back." It wasn't about that. And John knew it. He was being intentionally obtuse, but minutes before a psych eval wasn't the appropriate time to call him out on it.

He turned his gaze towards Fred for a long moment as they headed towards the compound which housed the infirmary, in a wing of which the evaluations were scheduled to be carried out. But ultimately said nothing. As expected.

* * *

They completed a 10K at 0700 every day. The base boasted a running track, but preference for variable terrain led them to choose a route which took them off the premises, four klicks along a disused hiking trail of varying altitude, three-and-a-half klicks up the salt water beach the town bordered on, and a further two-and-a-half skirting said town back to base. And each day as they arrived back at 0730, a blonde female with a satchel was in the midst of being searched by the sentries.

Fred had deduced her to be figure from the window that day. Not many civilians worked base-side that he'd noticed and she fit the build of the woman he'd seen and always wore her hair loose. She was early thirties, approximately 1.78m, trim, with a pale complexion and blue eyes. Not the same blue as John's, much darker, much deeper. He knew because the first day they'd come across her on their return, running in formation, she'd frozen and tracked them all the way through the gated entrance and across the grounds beyond, looking like a deer caught in headlights the entire time, her eyes impossibly wide. He hadn't been sure what to make of the reaction, he'd sensed more than shock from her posture and expression. Shock, he was accustomed to. There'd been something else. Something abnormal. And ever since that encounter, she'd pointedly refused to so much as turn her head when they pounded past. He'd experienced a multitude of reactions over his years of service, but this one had struck a chord. Maybe it was nothing. He considered himself adequate at deciphering body language most of the time, but maybe this was an example of him reading more into things than was warranted.

It only happened four days in a row and then she mysteriously stopped coordinating her arrival to coincide with their return. She was still working there because he'd spotted her leaving one evening, on foot with the satchel. Presumably she'd either delayed or advanced when she left to walk there from wherever it was she was living. Which didn't precisely support the explanation that he'd been overanalyzing. The building he'd spotted her in that rainy afternoon was where the team developing the Gen 3's operating system were located, so she ostensibly had something to do with that. She would have been vetted thoroughly before being hired on for a project like this, and was searched every single day twice a day, but something still felt off. She was avoiding him and his teammates, that was plain.

Was it possible she was just uncomfortable with them? With Spartans in general?

People generally seemed to fall into three categories; they either stared unabashedly, wouldn't meet his eye, or acted fairly normal. The last group was by far the rarest. The fact she'd first done one and then the other wasn't typical. She _had_ met his eye that first morning, their gazes had locked for - well, what had amounted to only a few seconds, but had felt like much longer in the moment. And on the three following occasions she'd looked anywhere _except_ at Blue Team. But he hadn't noted fear or revulsion or any other response from her which could explain what was going on when they'd made eye contact.

Fred chalked his preoccupation up to having no other mentally stimulating problems to apply himself to while they were pending clearance to begin trials. Their evaluations; physical and psychological, had all come back satisfactory and preliminary fittings of the armor were set for the following day, so perhaps at that point he'd be able to let the odd situation with the female techie go. He hadn't mentioned it to his teammates. John had his own issues to deal with and he didn't feel it necessary to approach Kelly and Linda with the puzzle when it hadn't at this point amounted to much of anything.

He hadn't timed his return to barracks for 2000 hours. It just happened that that was when he'd finished up at the gymnasium and was cutting across the grounds to return to his quarters, and if questioned, he would admit to having absolutely no ulterior motive. But he didn't alter his path when he saw her passing the square either.

She was adjusting the satchel strap over her shoulder, having draped her red jacket over the bag. It was mild out, mild enough for the short-sleeved shirt she wore obviously. Her hair swung in time to her deliberate stride, brushing over her exposed collar bone. She had angular features, a defined jaw and pointed chin. High cheekbones and slender brows a few shades darker than her pale hair. A straight nose. Lips which weren't too full. They parted when she noticed him and realized they were on a course to intersect paths. She stopped.

Fred took two more steps and halted as well, holding her gaze. Her eyes darted past him, to the gates a hundred paces on. He clasped his hands behind his back. "Is there some reason I'm not aware of for you to avoid me and my teammates?" he asked her mildly.

He could tell he'd caught her off guard by being so direct. She blinked and her brows rose. "What?"

"You used to arrive in the morning at the same time we did. You stopped." He was doing his best not to adopt an accusatory tone since there could be any number of explanations. And he was hoping for her to provide him with one.

He'd said the wrong thing. "You're keeping tabs on me?" She still sounded dismayed, but also affronted. The barest hint of a lilt accented her words, not one he could place.

Carefully raising his shoulders in what he hoped appeared to be an indication of nonchalance, he eased himself a step closer. Her credentials dangled from a lanyard around her neck, but he couldn't quite read them. "Just an observation."

"About what time I arrive in the morning," she recapped for clarification.

It was his turn to raise his brows. "About it changing from 0730 after four days." He didn't see what the problem was here. Was he not supposed to have noticed?

She didn't seem appeased by the correction. "I guess I've been walking slower. Or faster. I didn't know my pace was grounds to be questioned." Her back straightened. "Maybe I should take it up with your superior, Lieutenant…?"

He felt his lips twitch. Was she attempting to intimidate him? "Fred," he supplied for her, as though it weren't displayed prominently on the name patch on his chest. He wasn't certain what sort of reaction he had expected, but it wasn't this. "Would you like me to show you to Commander Kenashi's office, Ma'am?"

"We both know it'd be a waste of his time." She hauled the strap up her shoulder again. Something in her stance had changed drastically between when she'd spotted him and now. Where he'd sensed alarm and unease before, now there was only confidence. "So if you're done interrogating me about my walking habits, I'd like to get back to my room and enjoy a glass of wine and a bath before turning in."

He had to give it to her. She'd recovered well. But he wasn't buying the act. Something had caused her to change her routine. He just had no idea what nor - as she'd called him out on - the grounds to press the matter further. He turned his body to indicate she was free to continue on. "Have a good night, Ms. Ashton." The minute adjustment of her satchel had turned the IDs enough for him to read them.

"Lieutenant."

He stood there and watched her approach the sentries, who struck up a casual conversation with her as they performed the by-now monotonous search. She didn't glance back. Not until they'd finished and handed her back her bag and jacket and she'd passed through the gate. Then she looked over her shoulder and held up her hand in what he perceived as a sarcastic wave before she headed off.

He couldn't help it, the corner of his mouth drew up at the gesture.

Lyra Ashton, Software developer.

The encounter had revealed a few things; she wasn't afraid of Spartans, she or someone she was close to had a military background judging from the ease with which she'd discerned his rank from his stripes, and she was definitely hiding something.


	4. 4

**More cobbled together technological lingo ahead. Advanced apologies, once again, to any computer-type aficionados (or even those of you with a grain more knowledge than my own, which isn't much). Word-salad is being utilized in the absence of knowing wtf I'm talking about. Just remember... it's about FRED, not the other stuff. And we love Fred, right?**

* * *

They hadn't waited.

Test boots and diagnostics runs had been completed on just two sets of Gen 3 when the oversized and reinforced door had opened to admit all four members of Blue Team into the secure area in which Lyra was working alongside Swinton beneath the supervision of one Dr. Honora Naples. The doctor had seemed satisfied with the cohesion of the integrated upgrades to the Mark VII suite thus far. Aspects from the Gen 2 OS which had received positive feedback from its users had also been incorporated. So far, everything was running smoothly. But Lyra hadn't expected for the Spartans to show up before she'd finished and was tucked safely back inside her office.

She nearly dropped her tablet.

Swinton snorted at the fumble.

Lyra shot her a dirty look and turned her attention back to the third suit of armor, which she'd just begun to boot up. "I was told I had until lunch time to get this done."

"Those sorts of calls go above my pay grade," Swinton responded with a shrug. She was just there in case there was a glitch or something didn't process the way it was meant to, an extra pair of hands which hadn't been necessary up until now.

That was when a memo regarding the advanced preliminary fitting time came through on the fleet-issued data pad. Lyra rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. "Here, take over with this one and I'll get the last one started with your tablet." She swapped her own device for the crewman's and walked to the final suit of MJOLNIR.

Naples was speaking with Blue Team, giving them the rundown on the Gen 3's stats as though they hadn't most likely already been thoroughly briefed on the subject.

No way to know if the Lieutenant - Fred - had noticed her or not because Lyra kept her back to them. Then again, who was she kidding? Of course he'd noticed. She'd spoken to him for all of a few minutes and she was already convinced those unique blue-green eyes missed nothing. Her heart had still been thudding its way out of her chest when she'd dropped into her bed after not one, not two, but three glasses of wine and a long soak the night before. He'd seen right through her, there wasn't a doubt in her mind. And all those years she'd put together image after image in her mind, she'd somehow missed the mark altogether, having never imagined he would be so goddamn good looking.

But he was. Oh, he was handsome, though perhaps not in a conventional way. There were too many scars for that. His features were strong and even, and those eyes were about the prettiest pair she'd ever run across. His dark hair was meticulously cropped and shot through at the temples with a silver which his otherwise virile appearance didn't support, but which nevertheless suited him, along with the scars bisecting his hairline and eyebrow. To make the best of it, she'd gotten the distinct impression he'd found her amusing, even if his expression had remained fairly neutral. If he'd smiled - lord, if he'd smiled she wouldn't have stood a chance. The charade would have fallen to pieces.

He knew. He didn't know _what_ it was, but he knew _something_ was up. She needed to give him a wide berth, complete the project, and get the hell out of there.

The assembly platforms began removing the first two sets of armor from the foam dummies they'd been applied to for the software testing. One belonged to one of the female Spartans and the other to one of the males. Relief flooded her when Fred approached it. Good, she'd already clued up with his. Which meant the MJOLNIR she was currently running diagnostics on belonged to none other than the Master Chief.

"All good here," she heard Swinton declare as her shoulder blades began to itch.

Turning her head, she met the legend himself's intense gaze. He was standing a few paces away. Waiting. On her. "Just be a few more minutes."

He adopted the at ease stance, but didn't answer, and when she looked down to her tablet again she could still feel his cool blue eyes boring into her back.

So, no pressure. She willed the data to scroll across the screen faster. She also willed away the memories. The what-ifs. Two donors, one who already suspected her of hiding something, the other practically staring straight into her soul. From behind. Had Halsey known there was something wrong with John's sample, was that why she'd switched to Fred's that last time? _Had_ it been John's sample? Had it just been a coincidence? Given his accomplishments over the past six years and what she now understood about Halsey, using a sub-optimal sample or going ahead with the insemination even if she'd suspected complications just because John was _the_ consummate Spartan and his offspring would have theoretically offered the greatest potential weren't things Lyra would put past Halsey. Her hands had begun to shake and she stilled them with effort.

Swinton came to her side and when she glanced up to the crewman's face, she caught sight of bare skin over the other woman's shoulder.

They were undressing. Stripping down right in the middle of the room, both one of the women _and_ Fred.

Lyra swallowed and told herself not to watch, but he was already shirtless and his pants were following suit. Next thing she knew, he was wearing nothing but black standard issue boxer briefs and was carefully tugging on the liquid crystal embedded techsuit which, along with its integrated skinsuit, would serve as his first two layers of protection. Honed muscles bunched and released as he inserted his feet, then drew it up his legs and torso before slipping his hands through the arms. When the composite zipper was closed, it sealed him inside the form fitting suit from the base of his skull down.

Swinton cleared her throat.

Lyra's focus shot to her, then followed her pointed looked down to the tablet forgotten in her own hands. The scans were done.

Idiot.

Swinton's expression was wry. She knew. "You're clear, Chief," she told the massive Spartan looming behind whom Lyra had somehow also forgotten existed.

They shuffled out of the way to compare results on the two data-pads. The assembly platforms were, with the guidance of Naples and the rest of the Gen 3's mech team, fitting the titanium alloy plated shell over the techsuit and making any adjustments necessary. Since the pieces were crafted using measurements from Blue Team's previous suits of armor, these proved few.

The perfect opportunity to beat a hasty retreat. "Seems to be in order," she concluded of the feedback and started towards the door with Swinton in tow. Now, just to return and review the results, maybe grab a paltry excuse for coffee from the mess along the way, and spend the next however-long it took to put the finishing touches on the programming cowardly hiding from hulking Spartans. With any luck, she'd be on a cruiser back home in another week or so. They'd spend much longer running trials with the armor, but she didn't need to be on hand so long as everything was functioning as it should - and nothing she'd seen so far pointed towards that not being the case.

"Ms. Ashton," Naples called.

Lyra nearly groaned. She was within a metre of the door. So close.

The doctor, on the other hand, was still observing the final tweaks to the assembly of Fred's MJOLNIR.

Turning back, she lingered where she was optimistically. "Yes?"

Swinton was smirking, damn her.

Naples threw a look over her shoulder which said she had no intentions of shouting across the space.

Lyra walked back. "Yes?" she repeated.

"I just wanted to say I've not been disappointed in your work. You came highly recommended and I'm pleased I took the advice." Lyra considered it a testament to her superiority complex that the woman could make praise sound as though it said more about the one giving it than receiving it.

"Thanks." She tapped the data-pad she held. "I'll get out of your way and go run through the parameters one more time."

Naples waved her hand acquiescently, as though it'd been a question and not a statement. "Of course."

"Something isn't right," she heard a gravelly masculine voice announce. Surprisingly, despite having been the last to start donning his armor, John was now fully encased, helmet and all in place. He positively towered over the mechs who hovered around him now, though she realized with some surprise he somehow seemed less imposing - at least to her. It was probably just that she - and 99% of the human population - was accustomed to seeing images of him in it, not out of it and in the flesh and blood.

"Can you elaborate?" Naples questioned as she approached.

The Spartan raised a hand to tap the side of his helmet. "HUD isn't functional and the servos feel sluggish."

"That has to be a new record, even for you," Fred piped up good-naturedly. "You could have at least waited to damage it until we were actually taking fire."

"Too conformist," an accented female voice supplied.

She couldn't help it, the banter teased forth a smile. It softened her perception of the four, exposing the fact they were indeed just people far more than the skin and the scars ever could.

Naples began pulling up diagrams and feedback on the control terminal mounted to the assembly platform since the Gen 3 would still be synced to it at this range. She scrolled through a few different frames of data and Lyra got a sinking feeling. "Ms. Ashton, I need you to take a look at this."

Fuck.

She caught what might have been the beginnings of a smirk from Fred's direction as she made her way over, but wouldn't give him the satisfaction of doing a double take to be sure. A new diagnostics scan was already running on her tablet when she paused before John. "I'm not seeing anything here," she had to admit as it concluded.

"Keep looking," he responded before Naples could, resolute.

Lyra bit the inside of her cheek and started manually checking over the individual programs facilitating the MJOLNIR's functions, and when that failed to reveal anything, accessed the suit's BIOS. That was where she found the problem, curiously enough. "I have it." She frowned. "But I don't understand why the others aren't having issues." The same software had been installed on all of the armor.

Evidently that oddity didn't interest him. "Can you fix it?"

"I hope so, it's what they're paying me for. But I'll need some time." She was going to venture a guess this didn't please him if the way his hand fisted was anything to go by.

Naples wasn't amused either. "Do you foresee further issues, Ms. Ashton?"

"No, but then again, that's what these test runs are for."

"I'd like a report on the nature of what's caused this complication when you've figured it out. You're free to go."

Lyra gave a nod and made the walk of shame to the door.

Swinton had wisely adopted a bland expression.

She bypassed the mess - coffee forgotten - and once in the confines of her office, set to work furiously typing to correct the problem.

* * *

It was a quick fix. Finding the source was not.

Nine hours, a restless night, and a further five hours of combing through the coding, the files, the drivers, and anything else she could think of hadn't led her to the why of it. But John's Gen 3 was now operating as expected. That was what was most important. It was what she kept repeating to herself, anyway, as she slid her mug beneath the spout of the coffee dispensing unit in the mess. She'd delayed venturing from her office to procure the much needed caffeine only to avoid any of the usual crowd - not in the mood to be propositioned by hormone driven overachievers that day.

"You don't actually drink that stuff, do you?" an increasingly familiar baritone spoke up from nearby.

"No, I just like the smell of it." When this didn't elicit any response she risked a peek over her shoulder. He was studying her in a manner which told her he wasn't certain whether she was serious or not. "Are my beverage choices suspect as well?"

The furrow between his brows eased. "Maybe. If you like that, at least." He nodded towards the unit and then cocked his head. "There's better coffee in the barracks."

Lyra looked to her mug again in speculation. "Is that right?" Why he was informing her of this, she wasn't sure. It wasn't like she could just waltz in there and help herself. "How nice for you." She reached up to jam the button to select her size harder than was necessary, but never got the opportunity.

"I'll walk you over if you're interested."

Lowering her hand again, she eyed the button he'd just unwittingly saved from her ire. What was this about? Was he trying to feel her out? Catch her off guard with more questions? Did it matter? Could she pass up coffee that was potentially better than this stuff? Snatching up the mug again, she offered what she hoped was a pleasant enough smile. "Sounds good."

His teammates were just seating themselves at a table with their meals. For some reason he'd detoured, it seemed.

"You look suspicious," he said as he turned and waited for her to fall into step with him. Too attentive.

"Maybe I am."

"Of coffee?"

It was her turn to wonder whether he was in earnest or not. He'd shot a perplexed glance down at her which might have been genuine or might have been a ploy. "Of further interrogation."

Fred seemed to consider her answer. "But you still accepted." He wasn't sure what to make of that.

"I could really use some better coffee," she supplied.

There was that quirk of his lips again. He was gorgeous, he must know it.

"And on that note I'd appreciate not being interrogated, also."

He laughed. It was deep and rich and warm. "Rough morning?" They were outside by now and she noted more than a few startled reactions to the laughter from those in the vicinity. He had to have seen it as well, but he didn't exhibit any outward response that she could recognize.

"Rough night followed by rough morning." Wait, that hadn't come out as she'd intended it. "It's the thing with the BIOS," she explained.

"Chief's armor?" It struck her as odd that he'd refer to his teammate in such a way, but probably it was as much a nickname for them as for everyone else. Not even probably, but evidently, or he wouldn't have used it. "It tested fully operational earlier."

"Yeah, I'm still working out what caused it, is all." Should she be speaking to him about this? He was a test subject and would have had access to the Gen 3's specs. No one had told her she _couldn't_ discuss it with the Spartans. They were directly involved.

"Ah. The report." He slanted a more commiserative look her way this time and the sun shining down onto the brim of his cap threw the uppermost half his face into shadow. For a moment that chin reminded her of...

"That, yes."

They walked the rest of the way in silence, but oddly enough it didn't feel awkward. He led her into the second barracks, a long squat building with rows of symmetrical windows three stories high. Down a hall, around a bend, and they stepped into the lounge area. It sported two pool tables, several seating areas, a large screen which was displaying some recorded sporting event, and a small kitchenette complete with the promised coffee brewing unit. It looked more modern than the one in the mess, so she had some hope as she approached it and slid her mug into the appropriate spot, then thumbed the button.

"You're not going to catch flak for sharing the good stuff with a civilian?" Lyra asked while she waited for it to dispense, leaning a hip against the narrow counter.

Fred had paused a respectful distance away and removed his cap. He crossed his arms over his broad chest. His eyes - they really were something else. "Worried about me, Ms. Ashton?" He sounded amused, but again, there was that note of puzzlement as well. So, he _was_ trying to feel her out.

"Just making small talk."

"Where did you serve?"

That question wasn't what she'd been expecting. She checked her mug. Half full. Hopefully that wasn't a sign this could go either way? "Nowhere. I punched a year of training, that's all." She tapped a finger against her thigh impatiently. "Then I realized a life of terrible coffee wasn't for me."

He didn't respond. Not right away, anyway. She wondered if she'd offended him with the flippant answer, but his expression wasn't giving anything away this time.

"Ashton!"

The exuberant greeting nearly made her spill the mug of piping hot coffee she'd only just picked up.

The source, one Ensign Lundy, had just entered the lounge along with some fellow officers. "Mess is due South, did you get lost?"

By the way Fred eyed them, their lack of acknowledgement of his presence was something he wasn't concerned over.

"I was offered some of your superior caffeine and couldn't turn it down." She gave the Spartan a nod of appreciation as she turned to go.

Lundy had been about to sink down onto one of the oversized chairs, like the rest of his mates, but straightened up again at the last moment. "If you're going to take advantage of our hospitality like that, you know you ought to join us for a beer tomorrow night. Don't say no. You can bring along your Crewmen if you want."

"Can I really?" she couldn't help replying dryly. She could just imagine Swinton's eye roll at being called _her_ Crewman.

Lundy just chuckled. "Or whoever else you like." He'd obviously mistaken her sarcasm as not caring overly much for the programming team she worked with.

"Like the Lieutenant, you mean?"

That wiped the arrogance right from his face. He squinted between the two of them, obviously having not anticipated the caveat, and cleared his throat. "Sure."

Lyra left it at that. Let the lot of them chew that over for the next however long. She headed back through the barracks the way she'd come with Fred no more than a step behind. She supposed he needed to rejoin his teammates and eat still - that, and she had just put him on the spot simply to get a rise out of Lundy. "Sorry about that."

He caught her up easily. "About?"

"Pulling you into their line of fire," she supplied. He was replacing his cap and flashed her the first real, full on smile rather than that faint curling of one side of his mouth. Her heart skipped the proverbial beat.

"First time I've ever heard an invitation to consume alcohol described quite like that."

"It wasn't much of an invitation, to be fair."

"You're not planning on joining them, I take it."

It was her turn to laugh. "No." Wait, maybe she shouldn't be so openly snubbing the guys he was bunking with. "I'll probably be too busy. Why?" Not her best save.

Fred's shoulders rose and fell. "Ascertaining whether my services as an escort were going to be required or not."

Relaxing, she laughed again. "I'm sure you have more important duties, but thanks for the offer." They were closing in on the compound the mess hall was located within. "And, again, the coffee."

"Offer? You volunteered me, as I remember it."

"You should be used to that at this point in your career, shouldn't you?" It was the wrong thing to say. She knew it the moment the words had passed her lips, but she couldn't take them back.

He was watching her from the corner of his eye again like he didn't know what to think of her.

Thanks, brain. Wasn't she supposed to be smart?

She plastered on an oblivious expression, relieved their paths were diverging. "See you around, Lieutenant."


	5. 5

Favours.

They were something Lyra was going to need to be more careful _not_ to incur going forward. Somehow, not only had partaking of coffee from the barracks been grounds to expect one, but evidently Swinton had also believed herself to be owed one when Lyra had - mistakenly, she now realized - mentioned where she'd procured said coffee.

For 'saving your distracted ass', or so the crewman had noted, of that morning they'd been running tests on the Gen 3 and Lyra had become a little too preoccupied by well-defined abdominals and a tight rear.

"I didn't peg you for the vain type," she now grumbled while nursing a whiskey at the infamous establishment Lundy had been after her to join him and his pals at almost since she'd started work on the project.

Swinton, from beside Lyra as she awaited her own drink from the bartender, shrugged unapologetically. "Sometimes you just need to get it out of your system."

"Isn't he in your chain of command?" Lundy _was_ an officer.

"Sometimes you just need to get it out of your system," the redhead repeated with a sly smile as her beer was slid across the counter to her.

They turned towards the pool table the men were gathered round. "Right, well I invited you along, so as far as I'm concerned my debt is paid the second I finish this drink." She hadn't wanted to come to start with and she certainly wasn't going to stay longer than necessary no matter how hard Swinton twisted her arm.

"Are you always this much fun?"

"I knew I liked Baker better than you for some reason."

"Because he's a genius, you mean?"

Lyra wrinkled her nose. "No, that part I find concerning - I don't need him showing me up."

"True. You embarrass yourself well enough without help."

"I'm beginning to see why you've got eight years of service to your name and you're still a crewman."

"It took you this long?" Swinton tipped her beer in salute and sauntered towards the pool table and her quarry. Lundy didn't stand a chance.

Bombing back the remainder of her whiskey, Lyra gathered her jacket from the back of the chair she'd hung it over and made her way through the haphazardly spaced tables and chairs, most of which were filled. She was approaching the door when it opened to admit someone and she stepped aside automatically to avoid a collision. The figure which filled the doorway caused her to blink stupidly. "Fre- Lieutenant?" Damn. Damn that slip of the tongue.

He'd noticed. He had for sure noticed. His eyes had narrowed ever so slightly. "Ms. Ashton."

What the hell was he doing there? It didn't strike her as his sort of scene. In fact, more than a few heads had turned at his arrival. And she'd told him she wouldn't be in attendance.

"You appear to be leaving," he said, saving her from having to actually string words together into a sentence in the face of this unexpected development. He was still dressed in his fatigues, the sleeves rolled neatly up past his elbows, whereas most all of the other soldiers present had abandoned their uniforms for the evening, Lundy and Swinton included.

"Yeah, I was just heading out." Good job brain.

Instead of responding, he turned side-on to allow her to pass. Still sour about the day before, about what she'd said?

Lyra held her jacket in close and slipped by him, but it was tight. To her surprise, he didn't continue inside, but was close behind her as the door slid shut, cutting off all of the chatter and noise from within. She looked back. "You're not staying?"

His brows drifted upwards. "There doesn't seem to be a purpose to any longer."

"What does that mean?"

"You just said you're returning to your hotel." He nodded towards a warthog parked across the street. "I'll drive you."

Now her stomach was doing weird things. "I said I was heading out," she qualified, god knew why. Just to give herself more time to think, possibly. "But what does that have to do with you?"

"You said you weren't coming. That, along with the fact you suggested I might join you to start with, seemed to indicate you were uncomfortable with being alone with the ensign or one of the other officers. When Ensign Lundy said earlier today that you'd changed your mind, I thought I should come check on things." It was a preposterous explanation.

"Lundy told you I'd changed my mind?"

His gaze darted briefly back to the warthog. "I overheard it."

"You overheard it." Intentionally? There was a name for that. "And you thought you should check on me."

"Yes." No hesitation.

She inhaled carefully. This didn't feel right. "You have no ulterior motives."

This time, he failed to answer.

"Let me guess," she quipped while shaking her jacket out and shoving her arms into the sleeves, more to give herself something else to focus on than because she was cold. "More questions."

"Let me drive you back." He wasn't sounding as certain any longer.

"I'll walk."

"Then I'll walk with you."

"-To the beach. I'm walking to the beach." She'd only had the one drink, but hard spirits were not usually her go to. The bartender had shot her a dubious look when she'd asked about wine, however, so whiskey it had been. And it was giving her liquid courage - to be contrary about being escorted, apparently.

His head tilted in skepticism. "Then I'll walk with you."

"I'm not answering questions." And with that assertion made, she started off down the sidewalk. It was about a twenty-five minute journey, but he easily kept pace with her shorter stride, and said nothing while he did so. She wasn't sure _why_ he was accompanying her. She wasn't sure why she hadn't told him not to, either. He was still suspicious of her, that was clear.

And why not? She'd been so obvious. So painfully obvious. Why had she expected a soldier of his caliber not to notice?

The stars were out - millions of them. They glittered like finely cut diamonds up in the vast swath of darkness above, their reflections rippling on the calm ocean surface. She stopped, perturbed but feeling silly now that she'd had twenty-five minutes to reconsider her spontaneous decision.

He stopped as well.

The soft rush of the slow, undulating waves breaking on the sand permeated all.

Fred must be wondering what the hell she was on, to insist on strolling down here at midnight for absolutely no reason, but he still said nothing. He was staring out at the water. When she impulsively kicked her shoes off and picked them up, he watched her do so. Then he followed her down towards the surf.

"Closest body of saltwater at home is an eight hour drive," she supplied as she tested the temperature with her toes before stepping in and allowing the waves to wash over her feet. Why she was attempting to explain her actions - well, it was filling the silence more than anything. The silence was starting to weigh on her. Just like her guilt.

He opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it. She saw it from the corner of her eye.

"Cascade." She'd told him she wouldn't answer questions and was impressed he seemed to be respecting that, but there didn't seem any harm in admitting where she resided. He could find it out easily enough.

"I wasn't wrong about the ensign. You were clear about not joining him." He sounded as though he'd been giving this some consideration, though what the 'this' was, Lyra had no idea. "But you changed your mind." Oh, that.

"I didn't really. I agreed to a drink with a friend, that's all." She wasn't sure Swinton deserved that classification for basically blackmailing her, but she wouldn't rat the crewman out either. If she wanted to risk her career for a roll in the sheets with Lundy, that was her choice. "Why'd you walk out here with me, Lieutenant? Are you hoping I'll say something I don't mean to because I've been drinking?"

Saltwater lapped against the soles of his boots. "You don't appear drunk."

"Then it wasn't to keep me safe, either." That wasn't her impression, at least. She bent to retrieve a pale shell and pitched it out further into the surf. He wasn't answering, so she tossed a few more, mulling this over. It seemed highly unlikely ONI would utilize a Spartan to covertly question her. Nor was he being anything but direct about his suspicions. She ran her thumb over the ribbed exterior of one of the shells, then turned and offered it to him. "How good is a Spartan arm, anyway?"

Fred smiled crookedly at the challenge. He took the shell from her palm, the scars lining the back of his hand standing out in the diluted starlight. He rolled it between his fingers and adjusted his stance, cocking his arm back and hurling the shell much farther than her darkness impaired vision could perceive.

"Oh, it's like that." A drop in the bucket of his actual physical capabilities. She leaned down to pick up another of the small shells at the same moment he evidently made the decision to do so and her forehead collided with a powerful shoulder. It knocked her off balance and she threw her arms out to attempt to counteract her momentum, knowing her ass was destined for a soggy reunion with the sand even as she did so. Until warm fingers closed around her elbow, steadying her.

"Are you alright?" he asked as he propelled her upright with care, dark brows drawn together. "I didn't realize-"

"I was going to headbutt your shoulder? Neither did I." Her head smarted, but she was fine. Hopefully there wouldn't be a bruise. That would be fun to try to explain Swinton and Gomez, who would certainly make inquiries. He was still the picture of contrition and she couldn't help a burst of laughter. "Fred, god, you look like you just ran over my cat or something - it's fine. I'm okay." He hadn't yet released her and his grasp tightened minimally as the pensive expression he wore bled into something else, something she couldn't name.

It was only there a moment and then he let go of her arm.


	6. 6

There were few instances in his life when Fred had ever been rendered speechless. He could remember them all, count them on one hand. Had he ever been unsure of what he wanted to say, needed time to consider the best way to respond to something, or chosen not to at all? Yes. But not many occasions when his pragmatic mind had failed him.

This. This was one of those occasions.

Nothing momentous had transpired. He'd stooped at the same time she had. Prevented her from taking a topple. Attempted to apologize - though, he hadn't really, had he? Then she'd made that odd statement about a cat he hadn't even been aware she'd owned.

She'd said his name in a manner which had seemed to suggest they knew each other far better than they did - far better than she could ever be permitted to know him. It was the same familiarity with which Kelly or Linda or John used his name. Comfortable. Full of the trust of knowing, with him, they were safe - always. From an enemy weapon in the back, from unwarranted criticism, to speak their minds or express concerns or issues. She's said his name in that same manner. Casually.

And she was hiding something.

"Are you? Alright?" She was still standing in the wet sand in front of him, still holding her shoes in one hand. Her features were open and uneasy.

But she was hiding something.

"Me? Yes." How long had he been standing there contemplating her? Too long. He'd been perplexed about her choice to remove her footwear and walk into the saltwater, but it'd also fascinated him that it'd appeared a natural action for her. There weren't many beach goers at 0720 when Blue Team was completing their 10K, but he knew this - what she was doing - was what people came to the beach to do. He'd just never witnessed anyone wading in the ocean under a sky full of stars, collecting shells and tossing them. The way the cold light bathed her, making her hair all the paler as the breeze stirred it against her red jacket. The way her body twisted through the motion of throwing the shells, fluid and with the smallest of hitches which told him she'd likely injured her neck at some point or the hours bent over a tablet had resulted in knotted muscles.

"You're sure about that?"

"I don't understand what it is... You're not afraid of me - of Spartans. But your reaction, changing your routine to avoid us - there has to be an explanation-"

"Fred-"

"Ms. Ashton, my eyes work pretty well."

"I _know_ , trust me!"

He wasn't sure what to make of that assertion, nor how it was she expected to be trusted when it was clear to him she wasn't saying something - something relevant. Nothing else made sense.

"My name is Lyra," she said, her breathing less controlled than it had been. "I mean, you might as well use it - we're not on base and I thought I was clear about not answering questions, so you owe me that much."

Fred shook his head, though even he didn't know what it was he was denying. "I didn't ask any questions." That, yes. But also the propriety of referring to her by her given name? She wasn't UNSC, wasn't in his chain of command. He didn't have to address her formally. She seemed to have gotten over any qualms about using his name.

Moving past him, she headed further along the beach. "No, you're just making accusations."

"I'm just calling it like I see it." It hadn't been his intention to offend her, but he was convinced this wasn't 'nothing' or a misunderstanding. She was involved in a major and classified project and depending upon the nature of whatever it was she was hiding, that could be in jeopardy.

"Well, you're right - I'm not afraid of Spartans. I worked on the Mark V." He'd begun to trail her, uncomfortable with the idea of letting her wander off alone in the middle of the night. She wasn't inebriated that he could perceive, but she admitted to a drink and her judgement and response time could be impaired. Part of him wondered if this was what led to her abrupt revelation. "With Halsey." She kept going, shoes dangling from her fingers. "I never saw any of you then, but she said some things."

This caught him off guard. Halsey had spoken of the program? To a civilian? "What things?" Maybe this was a ruse to get him to confirm or refute any theories she might have?

"I had a condition - I was losing my vision. She helped me to get a procedure to correct that, it was a variation of the ocular augmentations you all received. If not for that, I don't know if I'd still be able to do my job right now. At some point, I wouldn't have been able to, anyway."

He digested this. It was possible Halsey could have facilitated the operation. But not without a purpose in mind. He'd never known her to be particularly charitable - her reasoning was practical. Then again, the fact Lyra had been involved with the Mark V project made her selection for this assignment more logical. And Halsey valued competence. Perhaps it was as simple as she'd viewed Lyra as a resource worth guarding for future endeavours?

"She never spoke specifics, but it was obvious she'd invested a lot of… a lot into the program." Her pace slowed. "I never forgot it. Any of it." Her voice had taken on a strained quality he couldn't comprehend. She balanced on one foot, then the other - coordinated enough to confirm his assessment regarding her sobriety - as she put her shoes back on and then pushed her hands through her hair. Then she turned around to face him. "When I saw you that morning, it reminded me of all that. I thought chances I would meet you all were slim considering I hadn't laid eyes on a Spartan during the other project. It was a surprise."

It… was a plausible explanation. Even if he didn't fully comprehend what had elicited her emotional response to discussing the subject. The procedure might have been a traumatic experience - recollection of his own still managed to disturb his vitals and thoughts more than thirty years later.

"I need to be getting back now. I'll manage on my own, thanks Lieutenant."

"I have to walk in the same direction," he pointed out, undeterred by her preemptive dismissal. Though he was feeling both uneasy about how much he'd pressured her and at the same time as though there was something he was still missing. "No more questions or accusations, you have my word." What possessed him to extend his hand to shake on the matter, he didn't know. It felt unnecessary and presumptuous straight away, but he could see she was deliberating what to do and so waited.

When she closed the distance between them and accepted, realization hit him with force. Her slender fingers curled around his hand, their palms flush and he enjoyed the sensation of her smooth skin beneath his thumb. He'd wanted to touch her. It'd been a subconscious excuse to do so.

Voices drifted on the breeze and his head turned automatically to determine whether they represented a threat or not. At first, even his enhanced eyes had trouble distinguishing the source, but then he spotted them - two people further on, one male one female judging from their silhouettes. They collapsed onto the sand in a heap accompanied by laughter. Were they grappling? Drunk? Both? The throaty moan which followed caused Lyra to clear her own throat, drawing his attention back to her.

He was still gripping her hand.

"Maybe we should give them some privacy," she suggested, puzzling him all the more. Privacy to fight, rolling around in the sand-?

Another moan reached them and his brain _finally_ made the appropriate deduction. Not grappling. Not in a violent manner, at least. He felt his face heat at taking so long to come to the same conclusion she had. And for still failing to release her hand, an oversight he corrected promptly.

She started back and he kept pace with her, sounds of the amorous engagement fading away. Then she laughed. "That seemed like a pretty scandalizing experience for you."

Fred wrinkled his nose. "Wasn't expecting it. We run on that beach every morning."

"Morning isn't a very discreet time for beach sex, so I think you'll be safe enough tomorrow." She paused. "Unless they're committed."

He shouldn't ask. "To?"

"Staying up all night. Maybe you can tell them they rudely interrupted us if you come across them." She flashed him a smile which was pure cheek. Obviously his reaction to the situation had amused her.

"Wouldn't I be rudely interrupting then?" He had to assume she wasn't being serious. People didn't spend all night in a public area doing that. Then again, up until five minutes prior he hadn't realized outside on a beach was a location of choice. His face was still on fire, but he didn't think it overly discernable in the darkness.

She only laughed more. In fact, she laughed a lot and clutched the front of her jacket. "Fair point," she gasped through lingering giggles which did odd things to his insides.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence and he walked with her all the way back to the hotel, past the bar and past the warthog he'd commissioned the use of for the night. She didn't protest and he didn't ponder too closely that he was going out of his way. Again.

"Well, goodnight," she said outside the large glass doors.

"Goodnight, Lyra."

* * *

She arrived at the base at 7:30 AM and offered Fred a nod when he and Blue Team filed past as her satchel was being checked. A gesture which he returned, his scarred eyebrow hitched up in good humour.

They repeated the sequence each morning for the next five days, but apart from this brief encounter, she saw nothing else of the Spartans. With the preliminary fittings complete, they'd moved on to technical trials of the Gen 3's function.

The day she passed in her report of the conflicting chains of code which had been the ultimate cause of the malfunction with John's armor - a curious cloning error which had only occurred with the software for his MJOLNIR - Lyra knew her time on site was drawing to a close. The project hadn't been nearly as extensive as that of the Mark V, mostly owing to the fact all supporting programming for an onboard smart AI had been excluded from her task list. She supposed in conjunction with the multiple layers of security they'd had her weave into the upgrades, the UNSC was looking to prevent a repeat of the breaches which had occurred during the Created conflict. Either way, it'd made her workload much lighter this time around. The Mark VII suite had been fairly comprehensive and well organized, allowing for seamless alterations and improvements.

But her neck and shoulders were killing her, just the same. As it turned out, walking to and from the hotel and daily stretches were not a substitute for the exercise program she adhered to at home. There was a gym in the hotel, but hauling herself from bed prior to 6:00 AM to make use of it wasn't something she was willing to do. And after returning in the evening she just wanted to eat, go through personal correspondence, listen to an hour or so of her audiobook and go to sleep so she could wake and do it all over again.

There was a pool in the rec compound. Swinton had mentioned it. She'd also described it as being rarely in use. So, on that day, after handing in her report to Naples, that was where Lyra had headed. She'd researched the area and had packed swimwear with the intentions of spending a few evenings of her leisure time lounging on the beach. That hadn't worked out and the two-piece wasn't something she'd usually wear to do laps, but it was still practical and not liable to fly off with a wrong stroke, so she'd judged it suitable.

As advertised, the pool had been deserted and she'd been gloriously free to do as she liked. Which had amounted to twenty-five laps, some languid floating, and not much else. It was approaching 9:00 PM when she dragged herself from the tepid chlorinated water and went into the locker room to change. A quick search of the area had not revealed any towels. A second, more thorough check had resulted in the same.

Why? Surely they were somewhere.

Wandering back out poolside, she chewed the inside of her cheek. She could always do her best to slick the water off and resign herself to walking to the hotel in semi-wet clothes.

But there had to be towels.

Her gaze slid to the men's change room. There was no one else there, no reason for her not to have a look. If there _were_ towels stocked in there, she'd grab some and replenish the women's - she'd be doing whatever female came in next a disservice if she _didn't_ check.

With that resolution firmly in mind, she padded over and leaned into the doorway. Nothing, no sounds of anyone being present. She slipped in and began looking in the obvious places; storage built into the bench seating between the aisles of lockers, beneath the wall mounted vanities in the lav, then back to randomly search lockers with dwindling hope of locating linens - which was when she came across the neatly folded fatigues.

Oh. Oh, shit.

Wait - no one could have come in while she was there, she would have heard them. And there'd been no one in the pool. Had someone forgotten their uniform at some point? She snorted at the thought.

Well, it seemed she'd be walking back in clothes that clung uncomfortably to her skin after all - but nothing ventured, nothing gained. Tugging her hair free from the braid she'd tied it back into, she was wringing excess water from the soggy length as she made her way down the aisle to return to the women's change room when another door slid open.

So close. She cringed. It was possible she could slink out without alerting whoever it was, but if she got caught it would be awkward. "Sorry, I-ah, there were no towels in the ladies and I thought I would check in here since it seemed empty. I'm just leaving." Lord, it was a good thing she wouldn't be around much longer. The last thing she needed was to be fielding snarky remarks about being a pervert from Swinton if she found out about this. She hurried towards the exit back to poolside as quickly as was safe with wet feet.

And skidded into a sweaty torso.

Not _just_ a torso, to be fair. The rest of him was there as well, and it was just her luck.

She eased back from the damp gray t-shirt she'd nearly faceplanted, saved by the knee-jerk reflex to throw her hands out to avoid collision. They rested against a warm ribcage and bicep.

For his part, Fred appeared just as astonished as she was certain she must. His vivid blue-green eyes travelled downwards, surveying her lack of clothing. Ironically enough, he held a towel. He didn't seem to know what to say.

Neither did she.


	7. 7

Fred's hand still hovered to the side, where it'd frozen at the sight of so much exposed skin. He'd heard her coming down the aisle he'd been approaching, the one containing the locker he'd left his fatigues in, and he'd been prepared to steady her when it'd become evident _she_ didn't know _he_ was just around the corner - but he hadn't been expecting to be faced with her very revealing attire. His brain recovered quickly enough to determine she'd been swimming, hence the need for the mentioned towels, but it wasn't quick enough to prevent her from walking into him.

She gathered herself before he did, sounding exasperated. "Where did you _come_ from?"

She was aware she was the one who was in the wrong place, she'd already acknowledged this or he might have pointed it out. "The weight room," he answered instead, finding it difficult not to follow the meandering descent of every rivulet of water which was dripping from her wet hair and running down her equally wet body.

"Were you alone?" Her palms were still flattened against his chest where they'd landed when she'd had the sense to react to the pending collision and he had not.

"Yes."

This seemed to relieve her somewhat. "Sorry.." Her hands fell away and she backed a few steps. "I'll get out of here."

"Wait - you said you need towels?" That was an issue he could assist with. There were plenty in the cubby in the adjoining gymnasium where he'd been strength training. When she nodded he went back to fetch some, grateful for the distraction, refusing to examine his reaction - running across half-naked women in the change room had not been a component of ambush drills. The armful he grabbed was probably overkill.

She was standing precisely where he'd left her when he returned. The raised fine hairs on her folded arms and accompanying gooseflesh indicated she was getting cold despite the fact the ambient temperature, by his estimation, was normal. She drew her lower lip between her teeth as the corners of her mouth tugged upwards. "Generous of you, but I only needed a couple."

He lifted his shoulders - the extras could just be left for the next person - but this explanation took a wrong turn somewhere between his frontal lobe and tongue. She'd plucked one of the towels from the pile he held and begun using it to soak moisture from the ends of her hair, and in so doing his eye had been drawn to her chest, where the stretchy navy fabric of her swimwear did nothing to conceal further evidence of her chilled condition. It was part of the body's natural response to a drop in temperature, no different than shivering, and not something he should be paying attention to - he cleared his throat and averted his focus rapidly. The fluffy white towels seemed the safest objects on which to secure it while she completed her ministrations and wrapped the towel around herself, tucking in the edge.

"I'll just… take these, then."

Fred extended the load and waited with mounting awareness as she attempted several arm positionings to carry them all which resulted in their forearms brushing together. A lot. "Why don't I bring them?" he blurted when his knuckles grazed her towel-enfolded breast for the second time.

"Yes!" She disentangled herself. "I think you'll need to." Patted his bicep and fled.

Exhaling in a controlled manner first, he followed. All he had to do was set the towels on the first available flat surface. His gaze lingered dubitably on the plaque outside proclaiming it the women's change room just the same.

"All clear," her reassurance drifted out.

The layout was identical to the men's and he stepped around the first row of lockers, stooping towards the bench to divest himself of his burden.

She'd take up a position further along the bench where a locker door stood open - presumably the one her clothes were stowed in. "Thanks."

"Anytime." He retreated back the way he'd come with her right behind.

"Do you swim?"

"I can swim. It's not often operationally required." He paused in the doorway leading out when he noted she intended to say more.

"I guess it's probably not advisable when wearing a literal tonne of titanium." Was she stalling?

"It poses some difficulty with buoyancy." Was he? Yes - yes, there was no question of that.

"That sounds like the technical way of admitting you'd sink like a brick." Her eyes were gleaming with mirth.

"I've never tried it," he confessed. "But I imagine it'd go something like that, yeah."

"No issues with buoyancy without the armor?"

The physics of muscle density, mass, water displacement, and gravity percolated through his mind briefly - until he realized she was taking slow, measured steps backwards towards the pool. Something about the gradual sway of her hips as she did so made breathing - nevermind physics - seem an intricate ordeal he was having trouble with. Her hands drifted up to the secured edge of the towel and she raised her brows in question.

What question? Was she suggesting he swim _now_? With her - alone?

He swallowed. Hard. He wasn't dressed appropriately. "None that I'm aware of." Not that that made a difference, because _he wasn't dressed appropriately_. Which she could clearly see.

The towel fell open. She lowered it from around herself. "Maybe you should show me, I'm not sure I'm convinced."

Fred wasn't ignorant of the concept of physical attraction. Nor was this his first experience of that nature. There'd been people - females - over the years whose physical attributes he'd found pleasing to the eye. Some had stirred more interest than others, some it'd just been a passing acknowledgement that yes - those eyes or that colour hair were nice. Preferable, even. But nothing like this. "I didn't come prepared to swim," he heard himself supply. Some part of his brain was still functioning as it should, at least.

"There's no one here but us," she pointed out, as though that precluded the need for swimwear somehow. "Besides, that sounds like an excuse to me. Are you telling me you wouldn't jump in if I fell in and was drowning?"

"Those would be extenuating circumstances."

"Pretend the circumstances are extenuating then, Lieutenant." There was something very improper about the address, something intimate despite the two metres separating them - she'd used his rank, but it felt no less familiar than his name. "I'm not going to tell anyone." Her tone remained playful and casual and conflict welled inside him.

He wasn't considering this. He wasn't.

The pool was utilized for crash prep training, the hydraulically operated D-79TC skeleton resting opposite them was evidence of this. In that scenario, entering the water clothed - outfitted in full tactical gear, in fact - was acceptable.

This was not that. The two could not be at more opposite ends of the spectrum of appropriate practices in which to engage in fully-attired swimming.

* * *

Apparently she'd presented him with somewhat of a moral quandary.

Lyra wasn't certain whether it was a military career's worth of strict adherence to accepted standards - maybe the prospect of swimming in something other than swimwear was too rebellious? - or if he was just modest - it hadn't seemed to be the case when he'd stripped down to don his MJOLNIR - but obviously he wasn't comfortable with the spontaneous overture.

It'd been impulsive of her anyway. She'd just thought - it'd seemed there was something - between them. More than acquaintanceship. Momentarily.

Suddenly, she needed that towel to be bigger, much bigger - security blanket big. She drew it back around herself, feeling like the worst kind of fool. "You know what - don't worry about it, I shouldn't put you on the spot," she amended. None of the media postings ever mentioned personal details about Blue Team, naturally, but that didn't mean he wasn't involved with someone. She had no idea how old he was - again, this information wasn't publicly available - but it wasn't overly young. There was every possibility he was in a relationship - and also every possibility he wasn't and wasn't looking to be, wasn't looking for anything. Maybe he wasn't in turmoil over breaking perceived rules _or_ body conscious, maybe he was trying to come up with a polite way to tell her he wasn't interested? None of their previous interactions had suggested otherwise. He was respectful and courteous. Candid. She wasn't actually so vain that one glance at her rack convinced her she was irresistible, was she? "Thanks again for the towels. I'll just have to take your word about floating."

He did manage a nod of acknowledgement as she passed by and escaped into the locker room.

There were only a million good reasons _not_ to tangle herself up with him.

Swinton had been right about things needing to be gotten out of systems - clearly it'd been too long since her system had been purged and now she was becoming irrational. Not even 'a fling with a superior officer' irrational, but 'seducing the guy who'd unknowingly knocked her up that one time - an event with extremely complex feelings surrounding it, the discovery of which could result in the immediate and complete implosion of the rest of her life' irrational.

She dried off, dressed, and got the hell out of there. Unfortunately, the walk to the hotel provided her with almost twenty uninterrupted minutes in which to self-loath.

God, she'd been fucking this up from the very start. She shouldn't have behaved like a simpleton the first time she'd laid eyes on the Spartans, shouldn't have gone on to so blatantly avoid them, and shouldn't have interacted with them in any manner except with extreme professionalism. Fred was to her continued liberty as the pin was to a frag grenade. As long as she steered clear of him and handled any situations in which they _had_ to collaborate with care and caution, everything would be fine. Otherwise, risk having it all blow up in her face.

Good thing she wouldn't be needed on site much longer.


	8. 8

No further fucking up of things was accomplished during her last three days.

Lyra smiled politely at Blue Team both in the mornings _and_ when she ventured to the mess for the terrible coffee she did not allow herself to not procure and they happened to be at their customary table. She clued up her side of the elements for the upgrades and spent time with Gomez, Swinton, and Baker going over their individual assignments. She tidied her office, declined an invitation to a celebratory supper, and walked back to her hotel to pack her things for the trip home. The cruiser was scheduled to disembark at 7:00 AM, but she'd arranged to board early and settle into her cabin that evening so that there was no need to set an alarm for some ungodly hour.

"I know you don't miss me already, so what'd you wreck?" she answered the video comm from Swinton, propping her tablet against a pillow on the bed so she could continue getting her things sorted.

"Me? Nothing. I did steal your chair, though - arm wrestled Gomez for it."

"You could have just said you arm wrestled for it, I wouldn't have wondered who."

"I'm telling Baker you said that."

"He'll just wonder why you're bothering him with your immature nonsense."

"He's younger than me."

"And yet my statement stands." She glanced up in time to catch Swinton's middle finger descending. "I'm running late for my shuttle, Swinton. What's this about?"

"Thought you weren't due out til morning."

"I'm bailing tonight so I can sleep in."

"Perks of civilian life."

"Yes, I lead a charmed existence. Still waiting for you to spit it out."

"Here's the thing… Naples just sent over an addendum."

Her hands withdrew from rearranging her clothes for the hundredth time in an effort to make everything fit into her luggage. "The sort of addendum three perfectly capable crewmen can take care of?"

Swinton's expression turned wry. "Not for what they pay me, no."

Lyra groaned. "What is it?"

"They changed their minds about the smart AI interface."

That was _not_ an addendum, that was a god damn project of its own. "Is that all?" No, no, no - the reason she'd been able to institute the improvements they'd asked for with such relative ease was _because_ the interface hadn't been a priority - in fact, she'd been advised at one point it might be removed altogether. "Did you tell her several of the security measures we installed have the potential to directly interfere with the interface?"

"No, Ma'am. I'll tell you what I _did_ do - call you."

"How've you not been discharged with that mouth?"

"What can I say? I guess my superiors like my mouth."

"Lundy's only an ensign - that's not exactly his purview."

"No, it isn't," she agreed with a pointed look. "So, best cancel that shuttle."

"Have I told you how much I hate you?" This was not happening. This was a bad dream, a terrible dream. She couldn't even beg off with the promise of remotely handling the changes which would be necessary, because she knew how extensive they would be and it'd be an even bigger, more terrible nightmare if she _wasn't_ there to manage the innumerable problems this was going to create. "You could have said that from the start instead of watching me fight with this bag for the past five minutes."

"I get that a lot. And yes, correct, I could have. But then I wouldn't have gotten to amuse myself watching you struggle to pack shirts and underwear - never figured you for lace, Ashton."

"You've given a lot of consideration to my underwear preferences, have you? I'm flattered, but you're not my type." She knew the banter was at this point just a diversion from the shitty situation. Not even a good one.

"Well, no - long walks on the beach at night aren't my thing."

"What?" Lyra snatched up the tablet. "That was _you_?!" Wow, the crewman didn't mess around, she'd snagged Lundy _and_ dragged him off to the beach in less than an hour.

"I'm sure I have no idea what you mean," Swinton deadpanned. "What's holding hands with an S-II like, anyway? He walk you all the way back? Did dirty things happen?"

"I'm going to order myself a bottle of wine now and drown my sorrows over having to work ten metres from you for the foreseeable future. Put my fucking chair back." Closing the comm, she set the tablet aside and scowled at her luggage.

* * *

Naturally there'd been no vacant rooms at the hotel for the following three days. They'd been nice enough to offer her a larger suite when it _did_ free up, and to provide transportation to base.

And _naturally_ upon arriving there, the sentries had required her to strip out each article of clothing and personal item she'd painstakingly crammed inside her bag. _They'd_ been nice enough to only paw through her lacey selection of thongs and make-up case briefly.

And _naturally_ whilst she'd been shoving all of that _back_ inside was when Blue Team had returned from their run. "So you said Hotel block is which way?" she hurriedly engaged one of the soldiers who'd manhandled her delicates, hoping to appear preoccupied. The irony of the identifier of the barracks she'd been assigned to was not lost on her. Not for a second. But it wasn't the same one the Spartans were boarding in, and that was what was important.

"Hang a right past the square, Ms. Ashton. It's the fourth building."

"Great." It was not great. It was bullshit. She compressed the soft-shelled bag as she wrestled with the straining zipper. There were footsteps approaching and she rather suspected she knew whose they were. Furiously repeating 'go away' over and over in her head did not change anything.

"Can I give you a hand with that?"

"Lieutenant, good morning." The zipper gloriously snicked closed. She glanced up and smiled. Politely. "That'd be great." It would not. But it wasn't worth raising more questions by refusing what amounted to a kind offer. She allowed him to lift the luggage from the small table, a feat which had almost thrown her back out and which he managed with precisely no signs of effort.

"Where to?" he asked as they proceeded away from the checkpoint.

"You don't actually expect me to believe you didn't overhear, do you?" Off to a great start.

The look he slanted her way was chagrined. "Did you decide on a change of scenery?"

"Not exactly, no. My time here got extended and the hotel is fully booked for a few days."

"That's unfortunate." His blue-green eyes were set dead ahead again. "About the hotel, I mean. Not…"

This would be so much easier if he was an ass. Or just completely indifferent to her existence, like John. She could work professionally side by side with _him_ without the slightest inclination to rip his clothes from his body - it was difficult to develop desire for someone who was more likely to grunt in response to anything you said than use actual words. Damn Fred with his use of full sentences and appropriate eye contact. Well, most of the time. "It's only for three days, I guess I'll survive."

"Barracks?"

"Lumpy pillows, not enough blankets, and a too small bed." She might not be 6' a million, but even at her height there was no comfortable sleeping position. The most liberating part of leaving the UNSC had been sleeping in a once again adequately sized bed. And not getting up before 6:00 AM. That was also blissful.

"Ah."

"You must be able to relate. To the last one, at least. Maybe you're into lumpy pillows and not enough blankets." Some people didn't mind. Some inexplicably weird people.

He cleared his throat. "Used to it, I guess."

" _That's_ unfortunate." Entering Hotel block, Lyra ignored the bewildered reactions of the few soldiers they passed on the way to the lift - her quarters were on the third floor. "Better be careful or everyone's going to start expecting porter services from you," she commented as the door slid shut.

"I'll keep that in mind." The bag still hung by his side - he made it seem like it was bursting at the seams with bubble wrap or some other equally weightless contents, not a metric tonne of unnecessary personal belongings.

"I could have managed." With much mental cursing and physical exertion.

His head turned and he considered her, but the door opened to deposit them onto the correct level before he could reply. If he'd been intending to. She'd sensed he wasn't certain what to say.

Leading the way down the hall, she located the right room and waved the ident card dangling around her neck to gain entrance. Ugh, it was as cramped and utilitarian as she remembered. Carrying her satchel to the small desk, she fished out her tablet and bent down to tap a hasty message checking in with the hotel for any unexpected cancellations she might take advantage of. She didn't care if it was the executive suite or a janitor closet, it'd probably be better than barracks. She heard Fred set her luggage at the foot of the bunk - in fact, with a little less care than she would have expected from him. A glance over her shoulder revealed the sheepish look on his face.

"Sorry about that."

"No worries, I'll have them dock your pay for your inattention if anything's broken." The flush which crept up his neck was adorable. "I'm just having you on, Fred."

He gave a nod and eased back into the doorway. "I have to get going."

Turning back, she leaned against the edge of the desk. "I feel like all I do is thank you, but you probably saved me from a muscle strain, so I guess another is due. Thanks."

"It was no trouble." Another, more awkward nod, and he was gone.

That… could have gone worse?

* * *

This could not be going worse.

John's voice came over the designated comm channel. "Status update, Blue-Three."

He sighed. "Unchanged."

"Cool down period should be complete by now," Kelly remarked.

"It hasn't decreased from 73%. Temperature values still reading high."

"Faulty sensors?" Linda suggested.

"Blue Team, this is Dr. Naples. Please continue with the exercise, technicians will be arriving to assist Blue-Three any moment now."

They already _had_ continued - in fact, they were pinging five klicks off from his location by now, but John still responded with the expected 'understood' before the comms once again fell silent.

Fred waited, watching parameters which never altered on his HUD. Something was definitely malfunctioning with the safety lock-out feature which had been engaged for the trial exercise. In the field if his MJOLNIR had overheated, he would have kept going until a secure area could be reached and he could allow the armor's core temperature to return to within normal limits, or barring the possibility of that he would have fought on until it either shut down or the fusion reactor had reached critical mass. Armor lock was not a situation any Spartan wanted to find themselves in.

The techs arrived and much assessing took place. Panels were removed, tools were applied, and still his Gen 3 refused to budge.

He was still immobile when a second warthog rolled up, conveying a passenger whose blonde hair flew loose in the breeze.

She said something to the soldier driving and he maneuvered the ground support vehicle in close before cutting the engine. When she climbed back into the tray and stood up, they were almost at eye level. "How long have you been stuck in that tin can?"

"Going on fifty-eight minutes now."

"Well, I'm here to rescue you - I hope. Can I interest you in some fresh air in the meantime?"

"Uh… sure." The filtered air inside didn't bother him, but staring at numbers which failed to accurately indicate what was going on with his armor was growing tedious. She reached up to his helmet and he felt the gentle tug as she pried it off.

"Holy shit, this is heavier than expected." Setting it down, she retrieved her data-pad from the satchel she wore over her shoulder. "Now, let's see…"

"It's not the cooling recirc system," one of the techs supplied.

"Or the sensors."

"Or the reactor."

Lyra's brows shot up. "I mean, I'd hope not or I'd question what we're all doing standing so close. No offense, Lieutenant."

"None taken," Fred assured. He wondered at the ease with which she interchangeably used his name and his rank, making neither sound more or less formal than the other. He was equally as comfortable referring to John by that or Chief, but he'd known his teammate for the vast majority of his life. They were brothers in all but blood. His association with Lyra was not of the same nature, it was… much more complicated than it ought to be. Recollection of how he'd fumbled her bag when she'd leaned forward over the desk, typing on her tablet, was yet further proof of this. He'd never, not once before in his forty-eight years, caught himself examining a woman's rear. Inappropriate didn't even begin to describe his behaviour - it certainly didn't describe the lurid images invading his sleep recently.

"So tell me about it," she prompted, her timing so impeccable that for a fraction of a second absurd panic that she knew what'd been going through his mind actually trumped reason. "What happened, what was going on when it locked?"

Her eyes hadn't even lifted from the tablet she was engrossed in, which was fortunate since he knew his expression had not remained neutral. He swallowed, somehow convinced his heart to vacate his throat, and answered. "Nothing abnormal, we'd just completed the 5K uphill sprint. My temperature readout was a little high, but inside the accepted range still. As soon as we stopped, the armor lock engaged." Get it together, Fred.

"Well, it either intuitively saved you from spontaneous combustion or forced you to aimlessly stand here and be poked and prodded for the past hour." Scrutinizing something being displayed on the screen, she wet her lips. "What's your take?"

It was the novelty of standing eye to eye with her - that was what was making simple movements and expressions draw his focus. "The latter, though I wasn't… tech only showed up thirty minutes ago."

"An important distinction. You're okay with poking and prodding if it doesn't exceed a half hour."

That was not what he'd meant.

She glanced up. "You're free."

He blinked and looked down, flexing a hand experimentally. How had he not noticed?

"I overrode the protocol, but you're going to need to head back to have a more thorough diagnostic run," she was saying as she returned the data-pad to her satchel.

"Copy that." Fred hauled himself into the tray, retrieving his helmet as she slid into the passenger seat again. Well, it was more comfortable than riding in the back. He wasn't disappointed.


	9. 9

Maybe it'd been the lack of sleep, or stress, or shitty coffee. Hours typing in front of several large monitors with her tablet always close at hand. Maybe it'd been hauling around luggage twenty kilos heavier than she should be lifting, or the wine - several bottles over the past couple weeks. Knocking her head off the rock hard shoulder of a literal god among men - oh and going on to dismally fail at being just the right amount of friendly to said god, who'd unwittingly fathered a child with her he knew nothing about. Because that wasn't anxiety inducing at all, right?

Whatever the cause, Lyra laid on her too-small bed in her shitty barracks room and suffered. What had begun as a headache at the start of the day had progressed by 3:00 PM into a full blown migraine complete with light sensitivity, nausea, and what felt like a hot knife digging into her left eye socket. Even Swinton had thought she'd looked pitiful enough to help steer her back to her quarters and leave her with a bottle of water and the pain relief meds she'd so kindly rifled through Lyra's luggage to locate.

Now there was clothes strewn about the floor which she'd trampled over no less than three times so far when she'd stumbled across the hall to the lav to puke, she still felt like death, and had no concept of what time of day or night it was. The curtain - a fucking curtain, not auto-tint glass - covering the window was serving its purpose mostly. Not that she'd dare to open her eyes. Even trips to the lav were made by blindly feeling her way with much stubbing of toes and whacking of shins. And the pain meds were doing precisely nothing.

She'd been _so close_ to getting out of there, to hopping that shuttle and returning to her cozy, spacious, tidy condo and her equally cozy, spacious, tidy office. Fuck Swinton and fuck Naples and fuck the Gen 3.

"Still kicking, Ashton?" one of the objects of her indignation spoke from the hall a moment before the door slid open.

Lyra drew her pillow over her head in defense of any light which might spill into the room and sear the backs of her eyeballs through her closed lids. "You don't knock now?"

"I didn't think you'd appreciate the noise."

"I _don't_."

"I told you she'd be contrary," Swinton remarked. Wait, had she brought one of the guys with her?

"I might be dying slowly, but you assholes still have work to do."

"We do get a few hours downtime every day, fortunately," a voice far too deep to belong to Gomez or Baker carried into the room.

God, she was going to be sick again. Why, Swinton? Why?

"I wouldn't take that shit if I was you, Sir."

Fred cleared his throat - jesus, was he trying not to laugh or appalled by Swinton's insolence? "Noted, Crewman. How long have you been like this, Ms. Ashton?"

"A few hours."

"A few in civilian tongue is twenty-one," Swinton supplied helpfully.

Had it really been that long? "Wow, dying takes a long time." All this talking was not improving her symptoms.

"Need more painkillers?"

"No, just quiet." She wasn't convinced more pills would stay down. Her stomach seemed to rebel enough being fed just water, nevermind anything else.

"Maybe you should get treated in the infirmary?" Fred suggested. Why couldn't he not be there? If it'd been twenty-one hours, that meant she was still wearing the previous day's clothes. There were probably underwear on the floor and bras and shirts and every other article of clothing she owned.

"For a migraine?" If she weren't dying, she might have laughed at that. In her limited experience, if you didn't have a limb hanging on by a thread, infirmary personnel weren't interested.

"It seems like you're in some discomfort." He sounded closer. He was standing on her thongs, wasn't he? As though this experience wasn't mortifying enough.

"I'll walk it off."

"You need to be able to stand to walk." Damn his logic.

"I'll sleep it off."

"How's that been working out for you?" Swinton pointed out.

"If I die, Baker gets my chair."

"I think it'd be advisable for you to be seen," Fred said.

"Look, it's like this - either I can drag you over there by your ankles, or the nice Lieutenant can carry you."

Lyra clutched the pillow closer. "No. Just, no." Just the thought of daylight made her guts churn.

"I really think you should let me bring you over to be assessed."

"I can't think of anything I want less than that."

"But you're willing to stop being such a pain in the ass and do it anyway. Throw her over your shoulder, Sir, some of us got ones and zeroes to type." The distinct sound of a hand swatting something followed Swinton's conclusion and Lyra's horrified mind supplied a picture of the crewman affably slapping Fred's ass - no, even she wouldn't do anything so impudent.

"Feel free to report her for being disrespectful."

"Feel free to knock her head off the wall on your way out."

Poor Fred. He had to be regretting coming here. If Lyra had had an ounce of pity to spare for anyone but herself, she might have used it on him.

Something touched her calf and she recoiled, imagining Swinton ruthlessly hauling her from the bed.

"Easy, I don't want to hurt you," Fred's lowered voice soothed as his hand slid beneath her.

Oh lord, this was actually happening - she was going to be toted to the infirmary like an invalid.

Refusing to relinquish the pillow, she otherwise gave up. Resisting would just make her sicker and she wasn't fool enough to believe she could fight the Spartan off anyway. The five minutes it took to be relocated from the barracks to the infirmary were spent clenching her teeth against the pain and queasiness. The _last_ thing she was going to do was vomit all over him - the situation was bad enough as it stood. She heard Swinton explaining her condition to someone and they were directed into an examination room to wait.

Fred deposited her gently onto the crinkly paper of the table and she did her best to suck in measured breaths through the pillow still crushed to her face. "Still doing okay?"

"Mmmm," she managed for him, terrified to risk opening her mouth. The sterile scent of disinfectant reached her nostrils and she swallowed. It'd been seven years since she'd been in any medical facility and the smells and sounds brought those memories back in force. The disorientation and fog of the anesthesia wearing off, muffled voices, rising apprehension that something wasn't right. That something was, in fact, very wrong.

"Hey, are you alright?"

No, she was far from alright. She shouldn't be there. Rolling to the side, she desperately tried to get up, but a hand closed on her shoulder.

"What's going on - are you okay? You need to lie still, the nurse is on the way."

"I can't - I can't be here," she gasped into the pillow as he prevented her from rising.

"Calm down - you're breathing too fast. Tell me what's happening."

"I can't. I can't." She panted the words over and over again, unable to do anything more. She knew she needed to take deeper breaths, knew she was experiencing some kind of anxiety attack - they hadn't happened after the C-section, she'd been too numb for it then, but the hospital staff had been nice enough to send her home with pamphlets. Lots of pamphlets explaining a range of symptoms she could expect to experience. Anxiety attacks had been in there. But she hadn't had one before now.

There was a warm pressure on her shoulder. Was she really losing it in front of him? Was that worse than vomit?

* * *

"She should come around in a few hours, they figure."

Fred looked over to the red-haired crewman - Swinton - as she came back into the partitioned area. "That's good." His gaze travelled back to the prone form in the bed which took up three parts of the floor space available. The monitoring equipment read her heart and respiratory rates as normal again now - no surprise with the drugs they'd shot her full of. He'd been obliged, by virtue of simply being there, to hold her still for the injections. It'd been a troubling experience. He'd been present for plenty of wound treatment in the field, he'd held fellow soldiers down - his teammates included - and been restrained himself against inflicting further damage while being tended. But this - this wasn't a battleground, and Lyra wasn't a soldier.

"I'll stick around, Sir. You must have places to be, asses to kick, and all that." Squeezing by him, Swinton took up residence in the only other piece of furniture - a chair much too small for him.

"Training exercises," he corrected her mildly. She was right, though. He'd been away longer than he'd intended - Blue Team had almost certainly returned to their obligations by now, lunch break had only been allotted thirty minutes. He'd been surprised to overhear Dr. Naples complain of not receiving responses to two comms she'd sent Lyra and had taken it upon himself to ask after the software developer when he'd noticed the three crewmen he knew worked with her in the mess.

"S'what I said. Anyway, I'll tell her you hovered anxiously for an appropriate amount of time before you left, don't worry." She'd stretched her legs out before her and crossed her ankles, arms loosely crossed as she settled in to wait. Or for a nap. He wouldn't put it past her based on their brief interactions.

He didn't know how to respond, he realized. Both her casual irreverence and flippant demeanor led him to believe anything he said was liable to be regretted. Instead, he gave a short nod and left.

He understood aversions to medical facilities and didn't have a preference for them himself - though, neither was he bothered to be admitted when parts required stapling or the removal of embedded shrapnel. As a front line specialist, trips to the infirmary were inevitable. But for Lyra, it'd triggered a panic attack. He didn't know if the migraine and the symptoms she was experiencing because of it had been the source, or whether it'd been something else. But he'd felt useless, just the same, and partially responsible besides that. He'd insisted on bringing her. Even if it'd been the appropriate thing to do, which he believed to be the case, seeing her devolve into a state of hyperventilation and incoherence had been a kick in the gut.

Was she going to resent him when she woke up? It was probably best his duties would keep him tied up for the next seven hours and his wouldn't be the first face she saw. The infirmary personnel should explain that she'd been dehydrated and had needed to be treated. Or Swinton.

It'd be unreasonable for her to hold it against him. Even if she'd been sobbing uncontrollably before the sedative had kicked in.

Right?

* * *

**I just wanna be on the record as saying IF FRED EVER SOOTHINGLY SAID THE WORD "EASY" TO ME, I WOULD BE ALL UP IN THAT SHIT SO FAST!**

**...so fast...**


	10. 10

"Fred."

His eyes shot forward at the sound of Linda's voice. He'd fallen a few paces behind Kelly, which had in turn set his teammate, jogging behind him, back. He made up the distance, admonishing himself for getting distracted by the appearance of a red jacketed figure on the trail ahead. It wasn't Lyra - not only would there be no explanation for her to be out there in the wilderness so early in the morning, but the last he was aware of, she wasn't in possession of two large hounds.

Kelly glanced sidelong to him when he was once more running abreast of her. "What's eating you up?"

"Wasn't expecting company out here," he skirted the question, knowing if he attempted to lie it would be obvious.

"That's not it." Kelly didn't say anything more - nor did she need to.

Behind them, Linda and John remained silent. One was listening with imperturbable composure, Fred knew, and the other… was detached. Going through the motions, motions which had been ingrained into them from the age of five, but in an emotionally removed manner even for the Chief. John hadn't proven any more open to discussing what was troubling him on the second occasion Fred had attempted to coax it out of him than he had the first. It wasn't a good feeling, seeing his brother throw himself into each and every task asked of them with thoughtless intensity. This wasn't the normal unshakeable determination he and everyone else had come to expect from John, it was avoidance.

And he was getting distracted by red jackets.

They returned to base per their usual route and the day passed in a tightly scheduled and orderly sequence of test runs and trials, just as every day did.

The enhanced AI interface which was now being included in the Gen 3's suite would require upgrades to their neural implants which, Dr. Naples had advised, would take place aboard a frigate dedicated to such procedures for the Spartan IV program. Both Fred and his teammates had undergone a number of such operations for improvements over the decades. They were slated to leave in two days, recovery had been allotted one week, after which they would return to begin the second phase of the trials. All in all, with travel to and from the frigate accounted for, they would be absent fifteen days.

He wasn't surprised when, instead of continuing to her own quarters like John and Linda, Kelly followed him into his that evening. He'd felt her intuitive gaze considering him time and again the past while. "I'm worried about the Chief," he said the moment the door slid shut behind her, forestalling inquiries he knew were coming his way.

Always so quick to defend John's resilience, this time she exhaled slowly. "What's he said to you about it?"

"What does he ever say?"

"If we corner him he'll just dig in and double down," Kelly reasoned, voicing an outcome they both knew to be inevitable. When pressured was applied, John knew no other reaction except to exert opposing pressure. "I don't feel he's compromised."

Fred frowned. No, John was not compromised - if they were called into the field right then, he would perform as expected. "He's not himself."

"Agreed. Do you think… would another AI make matters better or worse?"

"I don't know." They shared a long and troubled look. "I think, for now, the best we can do is attempt to engage him."

"I'll discuss it with Linda," Kelly said - which translated to 'I'll tell Linda the plan', because they both knew the other wasn't likely to add much to any discussion on the subject despite the fact Fred knew she was aware of John's troubled state of mind. Nothing got past Linda. "But that isn't why I came in here." Or Kelly.

He stifled a sigh. "What's on your mind, then?"

"You've been distracted."

"Oh?" The strong desire to busy himself straightening the tacpad on the desk overcame him, but he knew she would see avoidance of eye contact as validation that he was hiding something.

Kelly didn't appear impressed by the vague response. "By the software developer." She stated it with certainty.

He gave in and fidgeted with the tacpad. "The way she avoided us at first raised questions. I thought it would be prudent to find out what I could." It was a perfectly justified explanation.

"And?"

"And she said she worked on the Mark V with Halsey and that she hadn't seen a Spartan during that project and hadn't anticipated seeing us here either. It sounded as though something had transpired in the past that corresponded to her reaction, but I didn't ask what it was - I didn't feel it my place." He wondered if it had anything to do with her panicked response to the infirmary. The two could be mutually exclusive. He hadn't laid eyes on her since then, though he figured she must have relocated back to the hotel by now. The experience had obviously been distressing for her and he could understand this time why she might be avoiding him, even if he wasn't particularly pleased by the prospect.

Kelly was digesting what he'd revealed. She eventually crossed her arms. "You believe her?"

"Yes." He had no reason not to. There seemed no purpose to Lyra lying about her involvement in the Mark V project, it wasn't a claim which could be easily faked.

"And that's all?"

"It's all I know," Fred confirmed.

"No, I mean - that's all that's going on?

"I don't follow." He adjusted the edge of the tacpad minutely to align with the side of the desk.

"Fred." He could feel her exasperation. "I just want you to be sure you know what you're getting into."

He did not. "Your skepticism is noted." The fist she flung into his shoulder was expected, but he didn't dodge it just the same, feeling it was somewhat deserved. "Goodnight, Kelly." That was going to bruise.

"Don't make me regret not aiming that at your big dumb face." That said, she left.

* * *

Lyra blinked, taken aback when the lift doors opened. "Did you-?"

"Take the stairs to catch you, yes," Fred answered the unfinished question as he stepped inside, cap tucked under his arm as he secured the clasp of his jacket. He'd not even been out of his techsuit when she'd left after downloading the data from the most recent set of exercises.

A glance at the panel revealed the lift had ascended two levels already, and yet he'd managed to race up 4 flights of stairs and overtake it. "That's…" Impressive? Alarming? She didn't know how to proceed. He wasn't even breathing hard, though his uniform was slightly askew, a testament to the rush in which it'd been donned. "How can I help you, Lieutenant?"

He was blushing. It was more than obvious. "I just wanted to ask how you were feeling now."

He'd chased down a moving elevator for that?

"I'm fine." She tapped her fingers against the back of her tablet and watched the doors close. "Thanks for… everything." Though she would have preferred not to have had a mental breakdown in his presence. Or not to have had one at all - but definitely not in front of him. She had a hard time remembering much of it, a side effect of the sedative they'd administered to get her to calm the fuck down. She truly couldn't look him in the eye.

Fred cleared his throat. "Don't thank me. I wish… that hadn't had to happen. I was worried about leaving you alone in your quarters, it seemed bad."

"It was. You didn't do anything wrong." He didn't think the anxiety attack had been his fault, did he? "I just - I have a thing… with hospitals, apparently. I didn't realize it until… it was too late, obviously, but it wasn't anything you did - honestly. You were trying to help."

"You're sure you're alright?"

God, it was her turn to blush now. He must think her unstable. "That type of thing - that doesn't normally happen to me." The doors couldn't open fast enough. "Thanks again," she insisted as she turned sideways in her haste to slip through the widening gap.

"Lyra." He was forced to wait a beat for the doors before following her down the hallway. "Is it alright if we talk?"

"I have a lot to get done." She could hear him just behind but, like the coward she was, refused to look back. The way ahead was deserted, of course, and their footsteps echoed through the empty corridor.

"It doesn't have to be right now," he reassured. "We're shipping out at 0800 for a while and I just thought- I hoped maybe when you'd finished for the day?"

She kept walking. The exit was close.

"Or, if that doesn't work, when I get back possibly?"

This was killing her. "I'm not sure I'll still be here then." She didn't know that she wouldn't be either, but she shouldn't be encouraging this - she'd already concluded there was _every_ reason not to get close to him.

His steps had slowed. "When do you go?"

"I don't know exactly."

He'd stopped following.

She couldn't help but to pause and turn around - just continuing on and leaving him standing there would have been rude. "If it's about that glitch with the armor lock, the issue was isolated and resolved - it won't happen again." It wasn't about that, and she knew it - Naples or one of the techs would have already informed him.

"I know." His expression was impossible to read, but not because he was masking it - if anything, it was the opposite. He wasn't certain how to move forward and it showed.

Well, she couldn't imagine with his good nature and devastating looks that too many women had ever turned down the offer to spend time with him. And she'd been sending mixed signals from the start, it was no small wonder he didn't know what to think. She clutched the data-pad to her chest when he slowly approached. "I really need to go over this... to make sure there are no…"

His brows had drawn together as he came to stand before her. "Did I say something I shouldn't have?"

"No." She couldn't leave him hanging, wondering what he'd done wrong - when it'd been absolutely nothing. "You didn't do anything - at all. You've been great." Great - yes, the most apt adjective she could think to apply to him was 'great'. He was great, everything was just great.

"I have?"

"Fred - yes, you have. I know I've been all over the place and- and not that you would know this, but not acting myself, and there've just been a lot of _things_ that have come up since I took this assignment - I'm sorry, I know it's probably been weird and confusing for you." She was rambling her way into a hole. Awkwardly and with no purpose in mind. "I'm not usually like this. I'm usually-" not a lunatic? Well, except for that one time. "-professional. Boringly professional and good at what I do. I'm sorry you've gotten caught up in all of this. I think that migraine and everything else that happened were because of stress - which isn't your problem. You shouldn't trouble yourself about me anymore, I've got a handle on it now."

"I don't mind." Of course he didn't. "But it sounds like this is you telling me not to bother you anymore." He'd adopted a self-deprecating half-smile and it effectively drove home her own villainy in how she'd been behaving - acting without giving consideration for the consequences. He placed his cap on his head. "I'll let you get to your work."

Don't do it. Don't do it.

Lyra reached for his arm as it lowered from affixing the cap - her fingers didn't even come close to encircling it. He'd failed to yet fasten his cuffs and they dangled open around his wrists. "I would love to talk with you." She wasn't really going to use the classic 'it's not you, it's me' line, was she? He'd been nothing but kind, even when he'd been suspicious of her - a sentiment he no longer seemed to harbour.

"I sense a 'but'," he said when she didn't go on immediately. He hadn't pulled his arm away.

But I can't. Just say it.

"It's alright, you don't have to expl-"

"How about 9:30 PM? I'll meet you on the beach?" The impulsive proposal just seemed to burst forth of its own accord - her conscience at work. She already knew she was going to tell him - all of it. The truth. The whole thing. She let go of him and stepped back. "If that works for you?"

Now he was well and truly perplexed. It took him a moment to process the abrupt change of heart. "I'll be there."

"Good." You're going to hate me.

She turned and escaped back to her office before she could reconsider.


	11. 11

'The beach' wasn't a very specific rendezvous point. It stretched for kilometres in either direction, but Fred supposed the fact it was empty as far as the eye could see made the point moot. She couldn't fail to spot him when she arrived - just as he couldn't fail to be certain she wasn't there yet at 2130 hours.

He waited. The sun had already descended, but the sky wasn't clear like it had been during their last visit. Wispy clouds tracked across the crescent moon. He stooped to pluck one of the pale shells from the sand and examined its relative daintiness in his large and calloused palm. The same wind which carried the clouds along tugged at his cap and he removed it, tucking it into one of the pockets on his thigh. He turned his head as the soft rasp of sand shifting beneath someone's feet reached him.

"I guess I'm late."

"Not overly." He made to rise, but she held up a hand.

"Might as well stay down there." Lowering herself down, she sat and gathered a fistful of the fine particles, letting them sift through her fingers. She looked out at the waves while he settled.

"I wasn't expecting you to agree to this," he started, embarrassed. He'd gotten the impression he'd pressured her into it without meaning to and yet hadn't assured her otherwise when she'd unexpectedly named the place and time. "It seemed like… you'd have rathered not." He didn't know why that was - her explanation of her behaviour had been disjointed and hard to follow. She'd insisted he hadn't done anything wrong, but that wasn't how he'd read things.

"That's the truth and not at the same time," she said.

What was that supposed to mean? "I don't understand."

"What was it you wanted to talk about, Fred?" She didn't sound all that interested - she sounded defeated. Resigned. To talking to him?

"This isn't exactly how I planned it going." He was flustered by her conflicting body language and tone. She'd positioned herself by his side, close enough that he could have leaned over a few inches and his arm would have touched her shoulder. But it didn't seem like she wanted to be there.

"How did you plan it?"

"I don't know." He'd imagined companionable silence, or chatting about the project, maybe learning more about her. He'd imagined her laughter and the easy feeling which had come over him just hearing it. "Is something going on that I'm not aware of?"

The expression that overtook her features was one he recognized - pain and fear and regret. The haunted quality was one he'd witnessed on the faces of soldiers after a hard and bloody campaign. It spoke of remembered trauma. Guilt.

Fred was not the most adept at the intricacies of human interaction, but he knew that expression. "Is it to do with what happened in the infirmary?" he asked after several long moments. It was possible he shouldn't be pursuing the subject - it was a personal matter which had nothing to do with the Gen 3 and thereby nothing to do with him. And if she told him that, he would certainly respect the rebuke. But he couldn't deny his own curiosity or the desire to help or assist if there were anything he could do - even if he had no notion how he might do that.

"What happened in the infirmary," she repeated the words and closed her eyes. "That was… yes. It's to do with that."

He drew one of his legs up and rested his arm against it while he watched her from the corner of his eye. If she didn't say more, he'd let it go at that. Offering an ear was one thing, prying was another.

"I don't know how to tell you this, Fred. God, I wish I didn't have to, but I do."

Not the most auspicious start. He considered pointing out she didn't have to tell him anything she didn't feel she could - he, more than most, understood the things which must be left unsaid. Must not be spoken of. The weight pooling low in his gut prevented him from doing so, however. He sensed there was something he didn't understand that she was trying to impart. Not just information, not just an explanation for what had transpired in the infirmary - it was more than that.

Lyra blew out an unsteady breath. "I told you I worked with Halsey, that she got me that procedure to correct my vision." Here she glanced to him, gaze anxious.

He nodded - foreboding kept his mouth shut.

"The diagnostics and tests they had to run to make sure I was a candidate - she had access to my results. She came to me one day after the procedure and told me how impressed she was by them, by my genetic sequencing, by compatibility, by… things I didn't even fully understand at the time, some I don't still."

Fred's stomach roiled. He wanted to tell her to stop, that she didn't need to say more. Just that much had stirred the ghosts of his past.

But she kept going. "I won't bore you with the details. I don't think I need to. She convinced me that Spartans were the future of the Human-Covenant war, that they - they you - were the answer, the means to an end. That contributing to that cause was worthy and right. I guess she wasn't wrong - not about everything." She shook her head slowly. "I agreed to contribute. My genetics, my body… I agreed to be artificially inseminated by a Spartan donor. I wasn't to know the name. It didn't work the first time, or the second - but the third, it worked that time. Everything was fine until it wasn't. I wasn't doing well and they scheduled me for a cesarean. I went under. I woke up. The baby wasn't alive. I didn't contribute, I just… did a terrible thing. I won't ever forgive myself. I won't ever forgive her."

The detachment with which she spoke of the events was normal, he'd heard the hollow tone so devoid of emotion before from those relating traumatic experiences. What he wasn't prepared for was his own reaction. In contrast to her dead voice, a thousand different feelings seemed to assault his awareness all at once. Not even if he'd been provided with unlimited guesses could he have predicted this would be what she would tell him - and yet, he didn't doubt it, didn't doubt her for a moment. With only the minimal information she had revealed, he had no trouble envisioning Halsey pursuing such a goal. Had she not personally overseen their selection as children? Been the final authority on who was taken and who wasn't? He didn't resent the process which had forged him into what he was, but he was aware of the moral conundrum of stealing kids from their families in order to create Spartans. If there'd been a way to circumvent that unsavoury practice, to utilize willing participants to selectively create a new generation… he didn't doubt it to be Halsey's MO precisely.

What was more, the incident in the infirmary - her reaction to being in a hospital environment - made sense. His rational brain processed that, but the incomprehensible tangle of emotions was another matter. Before he could even begin to unravel them, she twisted towards him and he read clearly the deep anguish in her eyes.

"I didn't do anything, I didn't tell a soul. I was… I don't know what I was," she said, agitation creeping in, adding a strained note. "After she was detained - it brought it all back. I got scared. And angry. I hacked into the fertility clinic's records to check my file - it was John the first two times. Donor 1: S117. That's what it said." She sounded half-frantic, as though transported back to the moment in question. "Donor 2: S104."

The world didn't still, it jolted to a sudden and abrupt halt. Hearing John's name and designation had been jarring enough. Hearing his own? He forced his lungs to expand. Contract. "That's not…" Possible? Was he really going to assert that? He knew he hadn't _voluntarily_ supplied any samples. But he spent a significant amount of time in cryo. Blood draws and other diagnostics were regularly run during those times. Other samples could have been gathered without his knowledge.

Why would she lie? What reason could there be? What would she stand to gain by lying?

"I'm sorry, Fred."

Her initial reaction to seeing Blue Team and subsequent avoidance, her resistance to his suspicion - behaviours which, when viewed with this background, could be more easily accounted for.

"I should have told you from the start, but - it's a lot, to tell a stranger. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

His gaze had slid to the sand, to her fingers buried in the space between them. "I wasn't aware."

"I know - or, I assumed as much. It didn't seem like very many people knew; just Halsey and the fertility team. I was never approached, never… questioned. At first, I thought it would just be a matter of time. But either they don't care because it… didn't work, or…"

Or Halsey had not been given the go ahead and had gone outside ONI's purview.

"When I got this assignment, it seemed to confirm no one knew. Even if they had all along and hadn't bothered questioning me because nothing had come of it, I couldn't see being hired on for a project Blue Team would be participating in - not unless it was a massive oversight on someone's part."

Fred's mind felt slow to fit the pieces together, to sort it all out. "You said you weren't supposed to know who the samples had come from."

"No. I wasn't. But I still wouldn't think they'd want me anywhere near another Spartan project if they knew."

He wasn't as certain of that. "You've never told anyone else about this?"

"No." She seemed more composed. That was good.

"Lyra, it's important you don't." His thoughts weren't so scattered that he didn't understand the imperativeness of keeping this silent. Whether they did or didn't know what had transpired, ONI was at the very least under the impression _she_ wasn't aware who the donors had been.

"I know."

He was going to need time to process all this. "I have to be getting back." He brushed the sand from his fatigues as he stood and she gave a nod but didn't rise. It didn't feel right, leaving her there alone. Not like this. "I'll walk you to the hotel."

"I'm going to stay for a bit, thanks." She tipped her head back in order to look up at him. She didn't appear or sound detached any longer. Just tired. "Have a safe trip."

He hesitated. "You should get some rest."

"I will." It looked like an effort for her to summon the smile she did when he still lingered. "I will. Goodbye, Fred."

He turned and made his way back up the beach.


	12. 12

The fortunate part of fifteen days away from base was that it provided nothing _but_ processing time.

Fred combed through every detail that had been supplied. Again and again. And the more he did, the more his failure to ask pertinent questions which might have helped him to decide one way or another the validity of the information became apparent. He'd not questioned her much - not at all. Both her own emotional state and his shock had prevented him from doing so. He was aware of the ability of some to deceive, to fake turmoil and any number of other emotions - he couldn't be sure that wasn't what Lyra had done. He just could fathom no reason for her to concoct the tale and feed it to him. What purpose would there be?

He tried to remain pragmatic, to ascertain any and all advantages which might be gained before allowing himself to consider the rest. He tried. His thoughts kept circling back to the possibility there'd been a tiny being created from his genes - even for the briefest time - and he'd not known of its existence. Offspring were not something he'd contemplated - not something any of them had, he felt it reasonable to assume, though the subject had never arisen with his teammates. And yet - maybe - he'd had one for a number of weeks. A growing, thriving continuation of his lineage.

It was an unsettling concept to wrap his mind around, not just because it was something that had happened without his knowledge or consent, but because the intention had very clearly been to create a new generation of Spartan. And while he served proudly and with honour and would lay down his life in defense of humanity if the occasion ever called for it, he was not comfortable with the idea of settling that burden onto the shoulders of a child nor of being used as part of the apparatus to bring said child into being. The S-IVs were volunteers, those who chose to join the program and sign up for the augmentations. That was how it needed to be going forward. There were few convictions Fred held to more firmly than that. What had happened to him, John, Kelly, Linda, Sam, Kurt and all the others - that need never happen again. It was part of his motivation for fighting so tirelessly. Drafting children, removing them from their families and making Spartans of them - that had been to turn the tide of the war. It'd been necessary and it'd been successful. Further such programs weren't.

He hadn't even asked whether it'd been a boy or girl.

* * *

"Time to call it a day, Ashton."

"Thanks."

"I hear sleeping every now and again is advisable."

"Thanks again."

"This wouldn't have anything to do with avoiding the over 100kgs of muscle waiting out in the square for you, would it?"

Lyra lowered her tablet, fixing Swinton - posted in her doorway - with a scrutinizing look. "You don't expect me to buy that, do you?"

She shrugged. "It's no skin off my back, but I doubt he'll stick around forever. Don't forget tomorrow's a holiday."

"How could I, you've been telling me every day for the past week."

"Been telling you to sleep too, but you keep comin' in here looking like a damn zombie."

Rolling her eyes, Lyra turned her attention back to the data she'd been scrolling through. She heard Swinton and the others leave. The lines of code were blurring together. She pushed herself up, accepting she wouldn't see any errors at this stage even if the programming was riddled with them. Packing her keyboard into her satchel, she drew her jacket on and hit the panel to switch the lights off on her way out. The cool air on her face was welcome after twelve hours inside. Her gaze wandered to the statues ringing the square despite her confidence in calling Swinton out on the lie and she came to a halt.

Fred stood before the replica Mark V, his body angled towards the direction from which she was walking. He didn't approach and yet the distinct impression he wanted to speak to her was there. He wore his cap and his head appeared to have been shaved - she supposed a necessary step for the neural implant upgrades Naples had mentioned as the reason for Blue Team's absence.

"You're back," she said as she moved closer, trying to read in his expression what this might be about. "I didn't know." She hadn't known whether to expect if he would or wouldn't want anything more to do with her when he returned when it'd become clear she would in fact still be there. Either would have been understandable.

"Just a few hours ago." His blue-green eyes were pensive. "There are some things I think we'd better discuss."

She nodded. Dumbly.

"I only have my schedule for the next few days, but if that doesn't work for you-"

"Now is good." Best get this over this. "If you're okay with that."

He nodded this time. "I'll walk with you."

They fell into step, heading towards the sentries. Lyra set her satchel onto the table and obligingly removed her jacket - why she'd even bothered to put it on, she wasn't sure. While these were checked over, she was subject to a quick body search.

"Ah, miss?"

Looking down to the hand which hovered over her pocket, she flushed. "Sorry - just napkins." She pulled out the suspect ball of tissues, smudged with mascara she might as well not wear anymore. Randomly and unexpectedly tearing up several times throughout the day wouldn't be such an issue if she didn't have to worry about the black eye makeup tracking down her face - and instead only had to worry about the embarrassment of one of her colleagues walking in on such a scene. Her office, she'd been disgruntled to find, didn't possess a lock. Woe to the emotionally unstable occupant.

"Right. Have a good evening, Ms. Ashton."

She collected her things and joined Fred on the other side of the security fence.

They walked in silence for a while.

"There were some things I wanted to ask, if you don't mind," he finally spoke up. Still polite in spite of the bomb she'd dropped on him the last time they'd talked.

"No. Not at all."

"What did you know about us?"

"About Spartans?" His nod confirmed the subject. "That it'd been difficult finding candidates with the right genetics for the augmentations. That you were faster, quicker to react, and stronger than average soldiers. Not much more than what everyone else knows now, to be honest - but at the time it felt like a lot because no one knew anything." In the past few years the UNSC had relaxed its stance on the S-IIs and IIIs remaining enigmatic figures cloaked in shadow and myth.

"What did you know about what the plan for... the baby was?"

For her to be a mother to it. To love it. To protect it from ever being molded into whatever it was Halsey wanted it to be. "Just the vaguest suggestion of a training regime - an education and PT program. At first, I thought it would be a matter of waiting for them to grow up and mature and decide if joining up was something they wanted - with influence towards that end, of course. I knew there was a purpose and that it was to train new Spartans who already had compatible genes instead of screening thousands or millions searching for them. At some point it sank in that it wasn't going to so much be a choice as an expectation, and… not one that would wait to be fulfilled until they were eighteen or nineteen. But younger. Something they'd be trained for from much younger. After the two miscarriages, I wasn't going to do it again. I had my doubts - I had mostly doubts. I don't know if I wasn't thinking straight, if it was… because I had made up my mind about being pregnant, about a baby, but I agreed to one last try. I spent the first four months waiting for it to… for the same thing to happen, to lose it. And then one day I realized I wasn't going to. Or I thought… that."

"What was it?"

She looked to him, confused - until she noted the intense manner in which he'd been watching her.

He cleared his throat. "The baby… I wondered…"

So small. So soft.

"Girl… she was a girl," she forced the words past trembling lips, digging the tissues from her pocket and pressing them hastily to her burning eyes. She'd stopped and so had he, she felt his warm hand close around her elbow.

"Lyra, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

"Yes - you should." He didn't deserve to feel guilty about asking if the child he hadn't known was his had been a boy or girl. She blinked away the remaining moisture and crumpled the tissues in her hands. Inhaled slowly. "Fred, if there is anything I can tell you, I will."

He stared at her, visibly conflicted. "Tell me about the Mark V project, everything you remember about that year."

She did. For the remainder of the trip to the hotel, she related every detail she could recall; about Reach, Castle base and the tense atmosphere there, about the personnel she'd encountered, about the scope of her work. He was trying to verify her story and she understood that. It hadn't occurred to her he might not believe her, but neither was she offended by the prospect. Were their positions reversed, she'd be skeptical. It'd just.. been her life the past nine years, and she'd never before told anyone about it, or surely the obscenity of it all would have been pointed out to her. But Fred was too polite to say as much.

By the time they paused on the sidewalk outside the front entrance, she was exhausted from rifling through her mind for every memory whether insignificant or not, and also afraid to truly look and see disbelief written on his face.

He'd been listening with a mostly neutral expression and hadn't interrupted even once to ask for clarification or to tell her she was rambling. Was that a good sign? Was he merely being introspective?

Lyra adjusted her satchel. Her throat was dry from talking incessantly. She braced herself and turned towards him. "I won't be on base tomorrow, but if there's anything else you wanted to know… My room is 614 and I'll be here."

"I'll… consider it." He didn't seem any less pensive than he had in the square as he walked away.

Inside her room, she laid her satchel on the desk by the floor to ceiling window overlooking the skyline, the setting sun reflecting off the ocean's surface in the distance.

Maybe she'd sleep that night. She couldn't possibly unburden herself more than she had by now. There was nothing left to tell - nothing she could think of. If he didn't believe her… There wasn't anything she could do about that except get on with her job there, finish up, and go back to Cascade. He could choose to tell John or not. They were close and he would be better able to determine if the knowledge would be beneficial or detrimental to his teammate. She wasn't going to make that call. She'd caused enough complications for one Spartan.

Laying back on the bed, she kicked her shoes off and allowed the silence to wash over her. Her eyes were growing heavy and she was contemplating the need to at least shrug out of her jacket before passing out when a knock on the door disturbed the fuzzy and relaxed state.

It was a weird time of day to be restocking linens - especially when the staff were familiar with her schedule by now.

She struggled up, taking the opportunity being upright presented to shuck her outerwear. The jacket landed on the floor at the foot of the bed and she didn't care. She crossed to the door, so done with that day - with the last number of days, in fact. It slid open and she found herself staring up into a pair of troubled eyes. She hadn't expected him to take her up on the offer at all, but certainly not just now. Words deserted her.

He was gripping his cap in his hands. It'd hidden the fact they'd shaved around the sides and back of his head, but not the top. The silver stubble already growing back in at his temples caught the light in the hallway. It made her realize she couldn't actually guess what his age might be. He could be anywhere from early thirties to forties, based on appearance. His broad shoulders were slumped and he looked overall downcast.

Stepping aside, Lyra gestured with a hand for him to come in. Apparently she wasn't quite done unburdening herself.

He edged by her, cognizant of his bulk, and to her weary amusement retrieved her jacket from the floor in what she imagined to be an automatic response to witnessing disorder. Walking into her quarters to clothes strewn all over the floor had probably mortified him more than it had her, looking back on it. "I realize tonight isn't tomorrow," he began.

"It makes no difference." She reached out for the jacket and he passed it to her. "You don't know if you believe me."

He frowned.

"I understand. Really. It's alright if you don't - I'm not sure what it must mean you think of me, but it's alright." This wasn't about self-validation. True, the possibility he now believed her to be either a liar or deranged, or both, wasn't the best feeling ever. But it wasn't what was important. "I never thought I would meet you, but I have and I didn't feel it was right not to say anything under the circumstances. I'm sorry if.. it's made matters difficult for you. I'm sorry about a lot of things." 'Sorry' and 'thank you' seemed to be the two words she'd said most to him since they'd met, which frankly… was telling.

He'd dropped his gaze, his focus on the article of clothing in her hands. "You said you'd viewed your medical file… were there any others?"

The simple question stole the breath from her lungs. Other files. Other women. She hadn't even contemplated it. "I- no. I mean, I don't know. I was searching for my own, I didn't even… you think there may have been more?"

"I don't know," he said, brows drawn together. "Possibly. Possibly not."

"I saw other women when I went there, it was a private clinic. I didn't think anything of it." Now she was thinking. Now her mind was racing. Was she not the only one?

"It's just speculation, Lyra. I've had a lot of time on my hands. I thought I should ask."

"I could check." She twisted the jacket. "The files, I could remotely access them."

"What? No."

"Fred-"

"No. You've never been questioned, don't draw attention to yourself needlessly."

"But it's not needless. You would want to know, if there were others - you want to know and I can help." She developed security measures, amongst other things. Infiltrating them, while not precisely a reverse science, was something she could manage.

She'd managed before.


	13. 13

"I'm... curious, I won't say I'm not - but I don't need to know," he corrected her. Firmly, since the considering look she wore worried him. He hadn't asked with the intention she would feel somehow obligated to help him to find out if Halsey's project had begun with her or whether there'd been others.

She sat on the foot of the bed and laid the red jacket beside her. It contrasted sharply with the immaculately white and fluffy covers - everything fleet-issued always had a gray cast to it from being laundered endlessly in bulk.

Fred cast a more attentive eye around the spacious room, taking in the plush carpeting and heavy velvet drapes framing what he imagined to be a prime view, but which his combat minded brain immediately flagged as a potential breach point and massive vulnerability to marksmen. He'd never been inside a hotel of this quality before, or inside a serviceable establishment at all - the couple of bombed out buildings he'd sheltered in when engaged with Insurrectionists in the distant past had been no more than shells of broken concrete and twisted steel. The pale blue wall coverings and soft light from the two sconces on either side of the wooden headboard lent the space a calm and comfortable atmosphere which was so starkly different from the utilitarian gray of every fleet accommodation he'd ever made use of that he couldn't help but feel out of place.

He shifted, easing back towards the door - he'd taken up enough of her time. Even if his instinct was to be cautious and objective, he couldn't discount the authenticity of her reaction to the infirmary, nor of her appearance now; drawn, the darkness beneath her eyes a testament to little sleep and poor diet.

Maybe he was a fool, maybe it went against his better judgement, but he was leaning hard towards believing her.

He left before he did anything as stupid as tell her as much.

* * *

Three days.

That was how long it had taken for everything to go wrong.

The fact he'd even been present when they'd walked her across the grounds, an armed soldier on either side, had been purely by chance - the two warthogs transporting Blue Team to the designated area for that day's training exercise had left the ground vehicle hangar at the precise moment necessary for Fred to get a clear view of Lyra being escorted, her satchel clutched in her arms. He couldn't tell to which building they were taking her and her hair hung across what little he could see of her face from that distance, concealing her expression, but her posture spoke of tension.

Had she ignored his warning and looked into things she shouldn't have? All military devices were monitored - she wouldn't have been naive enough to use her project-issued datapad, would she? Perhaps the medical facility had upgraded its security measures since the last time she'd accessed her file?

He told himself he couldn't possibly know the reason behind what he'd witnessed - for the duration of the entire exercise, he shoved down mounting apprehension and unease. It could be completely unrelated, it could be anything. Just because it was unusual for someone to be escorted across base under guard didn't mean ONI had discovered her snooping and directed her to be detained for questioning.

Since part of the purpose of the trial was to test alterations to certain HUD parameters which included different sight modes, the exercise ran long into the night. The time was 0329 when they returned and were divested of their MJOLNIR. He followed his teammates to their assigned barracks and entered his quarters, knowing he would not sleep. It took a further thirty-three minutes for him to accept checking in on Lyra at the hotel in the middle of the night was an unreasonable response to the uncertain situation.

He did it anyway.

The sentries didn't seem to know what to think of his late excursion, but permitted him off base without too much fuss. The hotel personnel, he suspected, would not be as accommodating. He used the fifteen minute walk there to formulate what he hoped was a believable explanation - an unexpected development with the project she was involved with required immediate attention and she'd been unable to be reached via commcalls. His slightly rumpled fatigues and the fact he'd previously been there would lend the lie credence.

The clerk manning the sleek desk sized him up with all the poise of any weathered gunnery sergeant Fred had ever crossed paths with in his years of service - then begrudgingly offered to call up to the room to check on Ms. Ashton. Not what he'd intended, but as he had no excuse to disagree with the course of action, he simply stood back and waited.

If she didn't answer, he'd know he'd been right to fear the worst. She could still be somewhere on base, awaiting the arrival of an agent to facilitate her interrogation, but making enquiries would undoubtedly shift focus onto him. Did that matter? He'd done nothing wrong. Neither participated willingly in nor been aware of Halsey's agenda.

"Ms. Ashton, sorry to disturb you. There is a…"

"Lieutenant," Fred supplied as a warm rush of relief spread through his body. Even if it didn't preclude the possibility she'd gotten herself into some sort of trouble, at least she hadn't been confined.

"-a _Lieutenant_ here to see you." A pause in which he was on the receiving end of an intense glare of scrutiny. "Yes, a very large Lieutenant. Of course." The earpiece utilized to make the call was removed. "You may go up."

Right. He was now left with the unenviable task of explaining what he was doing there at such an hour.

The lift ride was not long enough to concoct any less embarrassingly fretful excuse for disturbing her in the middle of the night, so he resigned himself to admitting how illogically worried he'd been.

She was waiting in the doorway, a downy white robe which fell midway down her bare calves belted around her waist and hair tousled. She looked like she could have used the sleep he'd woken her from and her expression was anxious as she watched him traverse the hallway. "Is everything alright? Did something happen?"

"No - I just - when I saw you earlier, it looked like-" He broke off with a frown, aware of both the absurdity of his assumptions and the fact the hall was not the place to discuss them.

She seemed to come to the same conclusion, retreating back into the room to let him inside.

Fred stepped in only far enough to allow the door to close behind him. He was going to make this as brief as possible and let her get back to bed. "I thought you'd possibly been checking into the medical files and been caught somehow. I saw you being escorted across base." He watched her features shift from angst to confusion to something else.

"Oh, that - I had to bring a hard drive to Naples, she insisted on the escort," she supplied, some of the strain melting from her voice.

He was an idiot. "I'm sorry for waking you, in that case. We only completed the exercise and got back a little while ago and I… I wanted to make sure you were okay. But it could have waited until morning." That sense of urgency was fast dissolving in the face of his fears being proven completely unjustified.

"I think it _is_ morning, to be fair." She checked over her shoulder - the faint glow of one of the sconces illuminated the time displayed above the small holo-dock on the bedside table.

"Later in the morning, then." It would only be another couple of hours before she needed to be back on base. Would it really have killed him to wait that long to see if she would arrive or not? "You didn't do that, right? Check the files?"

"You asked me not to." Her brows climbed a little. "Do you…?"

"No." It wasn't required that she finish the question for him to understand the offer.

They regarded one another for a long moment. He tried not to imagine her with a swollen abdomen, carrying a life which had been intricately and briefly connected to his own in a manner which went beyond anything he'd ever before experienced. It stirred things inside him he didn't know how to account for, just the knowledge of that speck of life that had been.

If there were others, if he knew about them - then what? That information, no matter that there _was_ a strong pull to possess it, was superfluous to his purpose. It would change nothing about his role as a Spartan and would probably distract him more than he already had been recently. Choosing not to pursue the subject any further was the right call to make.

"Fred," Lyra said softly. Her shadowed eyes were warm. Unguarded.

He moved forward to take her hand, cradling it gently in his much larger grip. "Don't do anything that could put you on their radar. Tell me you won't."

Her fingers curled against palm. She nodded once, slowly.

Hearing her say the words would have reassured him more, but this affirmation would have to be enough. He ran his thumb across delicate knuckles more accustomed to facilitating tasks such as typing and holding a tablet than punching or carrying a rifle. Unlike his own, there were no scars on her face, just smooth skin unblemished by battle wounds. It was probably even softer than her hand, but despite there being no pretense of a handshake this time, he was still aware touching her cheek or hair would have crossed some line he couldn't quite define but knew was there nonetheless. He released her, also aware he'd already taken liberties that night by showing up uninvited to her hotel room in the late hours, but found her fingers weren't as willing to let go. They caught and tightened around his index finger as he was pulling back, preparing to take his leave.

"Wait. The front desk - what did you…?"

"I said it was about the project." He flushed at the manner in which her lips pursed in what he was sure was skepticism of how well the lie would have been received.

"Hugo's no joke," she advised him, fingernails lightly scraping against his sensitive palm as she brought her hand flush with his again.

Fred had noted the name on the clerk's tag, but found his focus somewhat drifting. He grunted an agreement. The man had had no trouble standing up to a 6'9" Spartan. It was hard to think about that when his eyes kept being drawn to her mouth, however.

"I doubt he'll report you to Commander Kenashi for visiting past guest hours, just the same."

Was that reminder of the time a hint for him to go? If so he couldn't help but be confused _and_ mesmerized by the small circles being traced over the meat of his thumb joint. He felt himself listing forward, closer to her, pulled in by a very real force he was only just beginning to understand. "That might prove awkward," he managed to cobble together in a low voice.

"Would it?" Somehow, with the way she was very attentively watching him from beneath lowered lashes, he got the impression the question wasn't in reference to reports to the base Commander.

He swallowed.

"If you want to kiss me, Fred - I want you to." It was no great surprise she could read him so easily - even he knew his body language was forthright, looming above her and barely coherent enough to string thought into words. What did surprise him was her invitation. He'd forced her from sleep, from her bed, in the dead of night just to assuage his nerves. Exasperation, he might have expected. Not this.

He felt himself freeze. He understood the mechanics of kissing - one saw things when stationed on board the same vessel for weeks and sometimes months on end, interactions between crew which weren't as discreet as they perhaps believed them to be - but he'd never done it before.

It took a moment to register that the little circles had stopped, his senses were so scrambled. Her lashes rose and she took a small breath. "I think I misread the situation…" The look which came over her face was one he remembered instantly, from that day by the pool. She let go of his hand, but he had the wherewithal to prevent her from retreating the way she had that day. He'd been too out of sorts to realize it then, but his lack of a response must have humiliated her.

"I want to kiss you," he said, finding his tongue. "I just, never have before." He knew it was abnormal - that he was an abnormality for a male of his age. It wasn't even that _that_ sort of fraternization had been strictly prohibited for Spartans, it was merely that the desire had never formed. He'd found some women attractive, but there'd been no want on his part to do anything about that attraction - it'd never developed into anything more. He didn't know that the same was true for all S-IIs, it wasn't something discussed amongst his teammates. Their purpose and focus was as tactical combatants. Desire, kissing, and attraction simply.. didn't come up in conversation.

Lyra's eyes had widened marginally and her lips parted. She appeared for a moment as though she would say something, but seemingly changed her mind. Her free hand - the one he wasn't holding onto like a lifeline - came up and touched his name patch before flattening against his chest. It slid upwards, over his shoulder and around to the back of his neck, where her fingers gently squeezed. "You're going to need to come down here so I can reach you."

He almost snorted at the instructions. Bending down, he allowed her to guide his head until their mouths met. Her lips brushed over his own fleetingly once, twice - then settled with slightly more pressure before drawing back. His eyes had closed of their own accord and flickered open after the momentary contact.

She hadn't moved far. Her soft exhalations were warm against his chin as she gazed at him in silent expectation. Waiting for an assessment?

He had to clear his throat before he could give her one. "That seemed… brief."

She smiled. "If only there was something you could do about that…"


	14. 14

The lips which moved against her own were warm and firm, uncertain but not hesitant, and Lyra had never before in her life enjoyed simple, unhurried kisses so much. She was only too content to demonstrate, to tease, to nuzzle, and unlike most men, Fred allowed her to direct the pace.

Experienced he might not be, but neither did he prove incompetent. His caresses were light at first, gauging her response, and soon involved more lingering pressure. When she leaned into him, his large hand settled against her back, its heat permeating the bath robe she'd pulled on over the cropped tank and underwear combo she normally slept in. His whole body was warm, even through the layers of sturdy fabric comprising his fatigues, and she sank into that inviting warmth without compunction, feeling dizzy with satisfaction but also with the exhaustion which was seeping into her bones along with his heat.

As much as she felt she could go on kissing him forever, she also felt slumping into him in a comatose state was an encroaching possibility. The nights… the nights had not been kind to her lately. Days either, for that matter.

"Fred," she murmured regretfully while drawing her head back. "I have to sleep. I wish I didn't, but I really do need to. Can we do this more later?"

He seemed to need to blink quite a few times before he answered. "I- yes. Later?" The gruff quality his deep voice had taken on spoke directly to a need within her, making this all the more difficult.

"Tonight?"

His brow furrowed. "We're running another lowlight exercise."

"Then… tomorrow." He didn't look overly confident that would work either, but didn't say as much. She pressed her mouth back to his and scraped her fingernails softly over the stubble at the back of head. "Soon."

The rumbling agreement which originated somewhere in his broad chest sent shivers skittering through her and she found herself reluctant to break apart from him. His hand smoothed down over her back, then up again before he stepped away.

She watched him go, then crawled back into bed and slept the sleep of the dead for a whole two hours until her alarm went off.

* * *

Sitting in the dark in the back of a warthog, freezing her ass off was not Lyra's idea of a good time. She supposed she might have mustered more irritation at being needlessly required to suffer through hour after hour of just plain waiting had the potential opportunity to spend a moment with Fred not accompanied all that waiting.

That moment had not manifested yet, but it wasn't all bad. She was shivering, but she got to watch drone footage of the S-IIs in action as they progressed through a surprisingly elaborate game of capture the flag. The adaptive camouflage feature of the Gen 3 they were testing was impressive, to say the least, and a direct contribution to the project of their new Sangheili allies. Fortunately, the function was well outside her scope of work, and the exercise showcasing its abilities was being overseen by one of those who'd helped facilitate its adaptation for use in the MJOLNIR.

Lyra had never before set eyes on a Sangheili, but if this one's imposing figure and seemingly advanced knowledge of the technology they'd harnessed long before humankind were anything to go by, she didn't question why they'd proved such formidable opponents during the war. She admittedly spent almost as much time sneaking glances at him as she did following along with the footage on her tablet. Naples had insisted she be present should any software complications crop up, but she was pleased that so far no such thing had happened and the upgraded suite was running flawlessly. There would be more glitches, she knew, but she'd prefer not to be made to look an idiot in front of the alien if at all possible.

Some of the techs had placed bets on which pair would emerge victorious; Linda and Fred, or Kelly and John. It'd seemed like it might go either way for much of the night, but eventually an impossible feat of agility from Kelly had sealed the deal in hers and John's favour. The Spartans had been advised to return to the warthogs for transport back to base and Lyra realized it was approaching 3:00 AM.

She wasn't going to be expected to turn up for 8:00 again, right? Tucking her device away, she huddled inside her inadequate jacket, then decided walking around was probably a better way to not turn into an ice block. It didn't usually get this cold - though, when was she ever outside at three in the morning? And they had travelled pretty far up into the mountain range bordering the base, the higher elevation was likely contributing. Shoving her hands deep into the coat's pockets, she did a circuit around the two warthogs parked nearest to her, and then another.

"Won't be long now," one of the techs was nice enough to assure her from the comfort of his parka. Obviously, Naples had failed to pass along the memo about appropriate outerwear to her.

It was as she was circling the ground vehicles for the fifth or sixth time that she heard them, their footsteps over the rocky terrain a steady rhythm which increased in volume the closer they got.

They'd just spent almost six hours trekking back and forth over these mountains, outmaneuvering one another and launching fake assaults, and they'd _run_ back?

The two female Spartans appeared from the gloom first, followed by John and then Fred. His helmet turned when he caught sight of her and he slowed from the ground eating jog to a more sedate pace, letting his teammates continue to the other parked warthogs without him. The rifle he carried was loaded with blank cartridges designed to leave a paint splat on impact and she noticed a couple such telltale marks on his armor as all seven feet of him strode towards her.

"You couldn't have lost quicker? Some of us didn't know we'd be freezing to death out here."

His muffled chuckle startled her. "It's eight degrees," he replied while stowing the weapon over his shoulder.

"It was eighteen when we left base." Eighteen was comfortable. Eight was not.

Removing his helmet, he tucked it beneath his arm. Sweat gleamed on his temple and cheek as the spotlight on one of the warthogs sprang to life and he squinted his eyes in response. "It'll get warmer as we head back."

"Maybe you'll let me sit beside you, you look toasty enough." It'd been an innocent enough statement in her mind, but the way he dipped his head and cleared his throat was intriguing.

"It wouldn't- the techsuit is insulating, you wouldn't feel… anything."

Her brows rose. "Really?" Edging closer, she stepped into the shadow he was casting. No one seemed to be paying them any attention, the focus appeared to be on an exchange which was taking place between the Sangheili and John. And even if they did happen to look, with his back turned, she probably wasn't even visible thanks to the bulk of his armor.

Fred watched her hand lift towards him warily. "What are you-?"

"I'm not convinced I wouldn't feel _anything_ ," she informed him, skimming her fingertips over the hand hanging by his side, around to his palm. "Or is that just your polite way of telling me you don't want to share a warthog?" She ran her fingers up the titanium plating covering his forearm to the exposed area surrounding his elbow to allow for movement.

He shook his head, torn between following the path her hand was traversing over his MJOLNIR and meeting her gaze. "I don't mind."

"You're sure?" Carrying on upwards, she playfully walked her fingers across his shoulder before sliding them down the chest piece to his abdomen.

"Positive."

The techsuit was equal parts firm and cushioned, and she suspected he in fact couldn't feel her light touch at all, but he seemed enthralled nonetheless as she traced around the titanium plate that laid over his stomach. "Because I wouldn't want to impose myself upon you or anything."

The helmet began to slip from under his arm and he adjusted his hold automatically, clearing his throat again. "Are we still talking about the trip back?" He sounded both puzzled and turned on, that husky note which literally called to her hormones having returned to his voice.

"I guess hiding you in that bush over there and finding our own way back later isn't an option," she half-joked.

He actually glanced around in search of the shrub in question and she had to bite the inside of her cheek hard to stop from laughing. "Doubtful," he confirmed.

"Then we're still talking about the trip back." Locating the rigid line of muscle which ran along his groin from the juncture of his thigh, she followed it slowly.

A soft bleat from within his helmet started up and he squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling in a controlled manner. She might have felt bad for him if not for the fact she was torturing herself in equal parts. "What about after?" The question came out in a rush, at odds with the measured breaths he was taking, and his eyes remained tightly closed.

"After," she agreed, somewhat dazed herself.

"Load up!" someone shouted, causing them both to hastily put some distance between themselves.

"Find me." She pivoted and went to the nearest warthog, climbing into the passenger seat.

Better not to tempt fate by riding back beside him.

* * *

It didn't occur to her they hadn't chosen an area to meet up until they'd pulled into the ground vehicle hangar. She considered trying to give him some sort of sign, but the Spartans exited the two warthogs they'd travelled in and headed back towards the compound where the Gen 3 was housed without delay.

He'd just spent all night tracking his teammates up and down a mountainside, surely he would be able to locate her? In fact… the more she mulled it over, the more the thought of having him find her appealed. But how to communicate the game to him?

Knowing her time was limited, she hurried to the square and into the building she worked out of. She needed to return her tablet to her office before she left anyway, she wasn't allowed to take it off base. A note was the obvious choice, but she knew the chances of coming across a scrap of paper in a department dedicated to software programming and development were slim, so after leaving her datapad on her desk she rushed outside to improvise.

It _was_ warmer at the lower altitude the base sat at, but she still wasn't thrilled about having to use her jacket. Shucking it, she tied the sleeves to form a loop and then carefully mounted the pedestal on which the Mark V statue resided. Once she'd successfully secured the garment around the neck of the statue, she hopped down and stood back a moment to admire her clue.

Fred would find it, she had no doubt, but would he know what to make of it?

Well, if she hid and he didn't suss her out in a reasonable amount of time, she'd give up and consider the ploy a failure. A spontaneous and stupid failure.

But… a large part of her had faith in his intuition.

The grounds were silent and empty, which was fortunate since she was skulking around like a criminal on the lookout for a place to lay low. She knew he was well versed in reconnaissance, but since this wasn't the wilderness and any number of feet passed all over the base in the run of a day, she left a few obvious signs of her passing; wet footprints on the pavement created by walking through the dew covered grass, some petals she plucked from a cluster of wild daisies growing up through a crack in one of the walkways which she deposited in the rough outline of an arrow, and finally a dead branch that had fallen from one of the trees which sheltered a small courtyard with picnic tables outside the mess hall she cracked in half and left in the shape of an X.

Satisfied with herself, she chose a corner of the building to settle her back to and slid down into a crouch to wait.

Butterflies was not an apt description for what was going on inside her stomach - more like a swarm of enthusiastic bees. She folded her arms and tucked her hands beneath them to stave off the chill, but she didn't feel it much anymore - she was too hyped up with anticipation.

If he didn't figure it out, she was going to kick herself for this, she knew. Her practical side was wondering what the hell had come over her - she could have just waited in the square, where he was sure to check.

But the thrill of imagining him stalking the base in search of her had been too alluring.

He would interpret her game. All she had to do was wait.


End file.
